Continental Breakfast
by TheySpellAlice
Summary: There's a lot to process when Ed and Al finally come home. Named after the Courtney Barnett/Kurt Vile song, this is a breakfast buffet of quick & delicious two-year-gap stories. Featuring automail shop talk, physiotherapy hell, dates gone wrong, career moves, crime-fightin', unexpectedly fancy dinner parties and emotionally significant acts of interior design. And, uh, EdWin.
1. Here and Whole

****The title from this chapter comes from the song "Here and Whole" by Joan Shelley**, and I'm gonna let it lead us off.**

_Go home, you sailors  
Go home for awhile  
The sea doesn't need you or know you  
And push the gulls to their ports and canals  
And lay your head on the shore  
_

_I need you, I need you  
I need you to be here and whole.  
_

There was a lot of crying on that first day back. Mostly from Winry, to be fair, but she was careful to note a few tears from Alphonse, and—since she had to see it to believe it—a few from Edward too. Once the boys had made their way inside, there were a lot of emotions and a lot of explanations, and all three of them were tired. They settled in a heap in the living room, close together on the couch like they were still little kids.

The two soldiers from Briggs serving as Winry's bodyguards stood by awkwardly the whole time, staying arm's-length-and-then-some away from the scene, until eventually the younger one caved and offered everyone some tea. He passed around mugs, and then, satisfied that he'd done what he could, strode out of the room again.

Winry was in the middle seat of the sagging old sofa, with Elric brothers on either side. To her right, an overextended Alphonse was starting to doze off, with an equally overextended Den sprawled across his lap doing the same. To her left was Edward—grinning in earnest, and not seeming at all self-conscious about the fact that his leg was leaning against hers.

The couch really was old—it drooped so dramatically that the middle seat was its own little center of gravity, pulling you in. With that in mind, Ed naturally leaning toward her wasn't a big deal. One of Al's feet was touching her other leg, anyway, and _that_ obviously wasn't a big deal. The three of them were comfortable with each other, and that was that.

"So," Ed said, lowering his voice a little with a glance at his sleeping brother, "what are you gonna do with all your spare time now that you don't have my arm to keep you busy?" He waved his flesh-and-bone right hand in front of her, waggling his fingers for effect.

Winry laughed softly, taking his hand in hers. "I'm sure I'll be plenty busy anyway," she said, smirking. "After four years of trashing your arm and getting it smashed to bits, you really think you're responsible enough for a regular right hand? They're a lot less durable, you know."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Ed groaned, feeling a painful twinge where his left bicep had been impaled during the last battle. _Not that Winry needed to know about that,_ he reminded himself, and continued. "I keep elbowing stuff and whacking my hand on things. I didn't realize it would be so hard to adjust to getting sensation back."

Winry smiled ruefully, holding his hand palm-up and examining it. "There's no real precedent for this," she said, idly tracing the lines on his skin. "So much of what you went through when you _lost_ your arm was really common, even if the _way_ you lost it wasn't. The grief and the phantom pains and all that—that's all textbook."

"Textbook! That makes it sound like it was nothing."

"I—" she sputtered. "No, of course it's not _nothing! _I know it's incredibly difficult, and I know that because I see it day in and day out, with _all_ of my patients." She turned to meet his gaze and continued. "It's hard, but it's what every amputee has to go through. We know what to expect, and we know how to _handle_ it."

"Right."

"But _this—_" she looked down at Ed's hand again. "This is pretty much the one thing we can guarantee _won't _happen."

It really was—so much so that, even though she knew it was what Ed and Al had been working towards all this time, she had never honestly, fully imagined seeing the real thing in front of her. Seeing Al again, definitely—although the older they all got, the harder it was to picture—but seeing Edward's flesh-and-blood arm replace the one she'd built for him, clean and smooth and all at once? It seemed insane.

And it wasn't just _his_ arm, either. Between her time at home and her time in Rush Valley, she'd seen an endless parade of patients grapple with the loss of their limbs. She'd watched them come to terms with the permanence of what they were going through bit by bit, and even as they learned to move their brand-new prosthetics, she could still see them imagining their own body parts moving in place of the steel ones.

She knew it was a process, and one that Pinako had explained to her bit by bit since before she could see over the workbench. She knew there were dozens of different ways to feel about losing an arm, but all of them went hand-in-hand with the same eventual remedy: accepting that the arm was really gone for good.

"What can I say?" Ed replied, laughing a little. "I'm exceptional."

Winry looked him briefly in the eyes then, seeing pure and unadulterated Edward Elric confidence staring back at her, and she rolled her eyes.

"Literally speaking, I guess," she said, smirking as she looked back down to his hand in hers.

Ed started to scoff, but it turned into a yawn, and he didn't bother stifling it.

"Still counts," he said softly, his voice thick and sleepy.

Winry smiled in response, still looking down. She realized she was tired, too.

"You just…" she began, tracing her thumb across Edward's palm. "You really are going to have to be a lot more careful; you know that, right?"

Ed replied with an annoyed but affirmative grunt.

"If you accidentally break this one in a fight, it's going to take a lot longer for me to fix."

She expected to hear something snarky in return, but instead she felt his fingers curl gently around her thumb and squeeze.

"Eh, you can do it," he muttered blearily.

Winry grinned to herself, knowing it was pointless to banter any further when he was clearly about to fall asleep.

"I know," she said quietly.

Seconds later Ed's head drooped onto her shoulder, and his slow, rhythmic breathing joined Al's slightly wheezing exhales and Den's intermittent dog snores.

The Elric brothers were home, they were safe, and they were sound asleep. Winry knew this wasn't the end of the road for any of them—and listening to Alphonse's thin breath beside her, she knew how much hard work still lay ahead—but for now, they were all together on the couch, and that was enough.

She let her own heavy eyelids close as she leaned her head against Edward's, her hand still gently holding his.

**Thanks for reading! **


	2. Are We Family

**Thanks so much for your lovely feedback on the last chapter! I've got a few more ideas for cute post-series drabbles (several more of them EdWin-centric), so I'll be posting them here. This one is more Al-centric, and discusses some health and rehab stuff. Chapter title is from the song "Are We Family" by The Tragically Hip.**

_It's only human to want to inhabit every feeling you've got  
And, more often than not,  
Let's take it to the nth degree.  
Here he goes, "Give me ten bucks and a head start,"  
Here's where he goes, "The puzzle's pullin' apart,"_

_And here's the scene: you're yellin' calmly up the street,  
"Are we family, or what?"_

It took awhile for things to settle into a rhythm, but they did. Ed's leg needed adjusting, and the scarring around the port of his arm needed looking at, but Alphonse had the toughest battle ahead of him. Even after weeks in the hospital, he was seriously undernourished and deconditioned, and beyond that, he lacked coordination.

It had been so long since his brain had actually been piloting his body—they theorized, anyway—that Al's muscles and nerves were out of sync with his brain. It wasn't totally clear where the muscle weakness ended and the nerve issues began, but his first few months back in his own skin were marked with intermittent episodes of tingling, burning, cold spots and numbness that neither Pinako, Winry nor the doctor from town could fully explain. He got tired quickly, he crashed into the corners of tables and doorways, and after dropping and breaking three different glasses in the span of a week, he started using a set of enamelled tin dishware meant for camping to spare the Rockbells' rapidly dwindling supply.

Walking was the hardest thing at first, but he'd impressed the doctors in Central with his commitment to the rehab process, and he was already progressing faster than they'd expected. It was painful and exhausting, and he still needed the crutch quite a bit, both for balance and to support his weight, but he could feel himself getting stronger every day. The big stuff was tough, but at least it was straightforward.

Less so were the little things. Ed and Winry came home from town one afternoon to find Alphonse locked out, napping on the front porch with Den, his keys in his hand. He'd spent half an hour trying to put his house key in the lock and turn it, but he couldn't get it right somehow. The door was rarely locked anyway, but it bothered him for weeks. He even dreamed about it, which felt ridiculous. It _was_ ridiculous—he'd been through hell and back, lost family and friends, fought monsters, soldiers and criminals alike, but what was he having nightmares about? _Dropping his keys._

Eating was weird, too. Back at the hospital he'd worked way up from vomiting up water and broth to eating actual solid meals, and by the time he and Ed made it home, he was _very _ready for Granny Pinako's cooking. His stomach adjusted, and he could practically feel his body kicking into high gear once it started absorbing nutrients for itself again after years of leeching them from his brother. Once he switched to the camp dishes he stopped worrying so much about breaking things, but somehow he was still making a mess at every other meal. He managed to miss his mouth about a quarter of the time, and cutting his food was a long process.

It was embarrassing, and Ed made a lot of jokes about it until Granny dug out a picture of him, eleven years old and halfway through his automail rehab, wearing a thoroughly soiled bib at the dinner table and looking absolutely furious. That shut him up—not that he wouldn't have shut up anyway if Al had let his brother know he was really upset, but still.

It was nice to remember that his family understood what he was going through more so than most, but he was about to turn fifteen years old, and even though he finally had his body back, he still didn't quite feel like himself.

Writing was another thing. He'd learned to do it just fine with his creaking, oversized armour fingers, so he didn't expect it to be all that difficult with plain old human hands. Admittedly, in armour at first it was a lot harder to gage how hard he was pressing, and he broke a lot of pen nibs figuring it out, but it happened eventually. But somehow, now, it took him forever to figure out how to hold a pencil right (_forget_ using a proper pen and ink), and when he finally mastered holding it at the right angle the letters came out weird, wobbly and huge. That was a hard one to take; before, Alphonse had had the best penmanship of anyone in school. It was kind of a silly thing to be proud of after all this time, he knew, but it was a strange thing to lose.

And anyway, silly or not, day after day he practiced letters like a primary school kid until his hands ached, and they got a little less wobbly and a little more grown-up looking week over week, because he had some letters he wanted to write.

There were no telephone cables connecting Amestris to the East, by land or by sea (though Master Sergeant Fuery had confided in Ed and Al that he was hoping to lead the project within a few years, after the Ishvalan restoration had gained some ground), but there was a fairly reliable informal postal service to Xing through the trader caravans.

They hadn't heard from Ling and Lanfan yet, but Al had been following the newspapers and the radio hoping for snippets of foreign news. There wasn't all that much on the airwaves beyond Amestris' immediate neighbours, especially given that border conflicts on all sides were still slowly deescalating. So far there had been an extremely brief item in the _Central City Times _about the emperor's health (which was allegedly improving) and a failed assassination attempt on another prince. Al wasn't sure how fast things would move, but he scanned the news every day hoping to learn that Ling had been named the successor to the throne.

There had, however, been a letter from May.

It came in a thick red envelope with an imposing wax seal, and Ed and Winry had an absolute field day upon noticing that it was written on several pages of perfumed paper. They hovered on either side of him, fake-swooning at the floral scent and sighing dramatically. Al hunched over the letter on the table, trying to hide whatever it might say. After trying and failing to catch a glimpse of the letter itself, they moved on to other tactics.

"My _dearest _Alphonse," Winry began, her voice breathy and theatrical. "It's been mere months since we saw each other last, but it _feels _like _eons._"

"My heart longs to see you again," Ed continued, picking up the tone and attempting a ridiculous falsetto. "I never thought I'd meet someone as dorky and cat-obsessed as myself on my journey to your foreign and exotic land!"

The two of them improvised a surprisingly elaborate skit about Alphonse's (alleged) star-crossed romantic future with the Princess, filled with royal intrigue and forbidden passion.

It was all pretty over the top, and Winry delighted in pointing out that Al had turned roughly the same shade as the envelope. He was embarrassed and indignant, absolutely—but on another level, it was actually kind of nice.

Well, maybe not _nice_. Refreshing, maybe.

While Ed and Winry had more or less managed to stay at each other's throats throughout the past five years, something about Al's predicament in particular had made them treat him differently. Not with _kid gloves_, exactly, but a lot more gently. The three of them had grown up scrapping, squabbling and generally giving each other a hard time—but after the accident, the dynamic changed.

He tried to keep a stiff upper lip about it, especially after the surgery, but Edward's sense of guilt coloured everything he did, and especially the way he looked at his brother. Alphonse didn't realize the extent of it at the time; on his end, he was terrified for his brother and what had happened to his body, and he felt guilty and ashamed and afraid to talk about it. It wasn't until much later, at the hotel in Central after Ed came back from Resembool, that it clicked for both of them that they'd been feeling the same way all along.

But Edward was the older brother—and, worse, the transmutation had been his idea. In Ed's mind, Alphonse guessed, that made him feel responsible in a bigger way. It would never have been apparent to someone who hadn't known the brothers before, but for five long years Al could feel Ed's sheepishness towards him—this vague, uncomfortable sense that he was pulling a lot of punches.

_It didn't help_, Al thought, smirking to himself, _that he had to pull a lot of literal punches too._

They had sparred plenty, of course, and even fought for real here and there—but when Al was in armour, none of Ed's blows actually landed anywhere.

Even though, as far as Alphonse was concerned, Ed never should've felt so guilty in the first place, he couldn't deny that it put a bizarre constraint on their relationship. Not having a physical body had robbed him of a lot of cathartic experiences for sure—the major one being just _crying_—but he also thought, in retrospect, that being able to get into an actual fistfight once in awhile would've made a lot of difference too. Even beyond just blowing off steam, Al realized in retrospect that there were probably a few punches he had coming that he never got.

Winry leaned over and tried to snatch the first page of the letter out of Al's hands and he dodged her, triumphant in having gotten at least that much of his agility back, and he folded the letter into a bulky square and stuffed it into his pocket.

Ed and Winry both booed loudly, but they didn't intervene as Al got to his feet, bracing against the table for support, and strode out of the room.

_Jerks, _Al thought to himself, grinning and rolling his eyes as he shut the door to his bedroom.

Well, it was his _and _his brother's bedroom, really—a former patients' room that the Rockbells had quietly outfitted with bunkbeds and a small desk the week after the boys had come home.

About half an hour later he was relaxing on the bottom bunk, reading the letter over again, when there was a knock at the door.

"Yeah?" he said, startled.

"I, uh…" It was Edward. "I just wanted to let you know I'll help you write a reply to the letter if you want."

Al folded the letter back into its envelope, tucked it under his pillow, and got up to open the door. It took a few tries to turn the doorknob properly, but he managed it, and then he was smiling at his slightly sheepish-looking brother.

"Thanks," he said, "but I think I'm gonna wait until I can do it myself."


	3. Central, Part 1: Hello Operator

**Hey gang! Thank you so much once again for the sweet reviews, they really made my day! :) This one is Ed-centric, and it's a two-parter about work, self-worth and, uh, paperwork, featuring Mustang and Hawkeye. The title for this one is "Hello Operator" by the White Stripes, because the sentiment "I can't be an ALCHEMIST if I can't do ALCHEMY" mirrors the sentiment of the song, which is "You can't invoice me for my BILLS if I'm DEAD." Enjoy, and let me know what you think!**

_Hello operator, can you give me number nine?  
Can I see you later, can you give me back my dime?_

_Turn the oscillator, twist it with the dollar bill  
Mailman bring the paper, leave it on my windowsill  
_

_Find a canary, a bird to bring my message home  
Carry my obituary; my coffin doesn't have a phone.  
How you gonna get the money, send papers to an empty home?  
How you gonna get the money? Nobody to answer the phone._

Ed wasn't sure what made him say, "You guys wanna come to Central?" instead of just "you" meaning Alphonse, but that was what came out of his mouth. They'd been sitting at the kitchen table together eating breakfast, all four of them, when the mail came, and he groaned when Granny handed him what he immediately recognized as an official letter from military command.

He'd been expecting to be discharged from the military with no issues after, well, everything that had happened, but the Colonel had other ideas.

At first Ed wanted to turn the work down completely—and he said as much to the Colonel several times, although not in so many words. But the reality was that, well, he could really use the money.

After burning through his salary and his annual research grants traveling for the last four years, he'd managed to come out of the whole ordeal with practically no savings. He wasn't sure what he should be saving _for_, exactly, but after living on his own and being self-supporting for so long, Ed didn't feel right not having any money coming in.

He did plenty of work around the Rockbells' house to earn his keep, but it felt weird and embarrassing going to the market for groceries and spending Granny Pinako's money. For crying out loud, he was _sixteen_—he shouldn't have been walking around with an allowance like a kid.

Ed spent most of the spring and summer at home, just being there, helping Al with his rehab and Winry and Pinako with the shop here and there (but mostly just doing grunt work). He exercised his arm. He read books. He relaxed. He even learned to cook a little, which was disastrous at first and eventually pretty okay as far as he was concerned. He had the occasional nightmare, but most nights he slept easily enough. The military called and sent updates here and there, but mostly they left him alone.

He later found out that this was because Mustang had placed him on an extended medical leave—the details of which had been mailed to him, but which he hadn't read—that suspended his pay along with his duties and his research and assessment requirements. But as far as Edward knew, he'd done what he set out to do (and significantly more than he'd set out to do) when he joined the military. Now it was over, and he was off the hook.

The money thing was weighing on him a little, though, and he _was _starting to get a little restless. Al still needed a lot of rest, and Winry and Pinako were both very intense workers, to the point that there were long stretches where he couldn't disturb them at all without getting his head bitten off. He hadn't brought it up with anybody else, but he was actually considering looking around in town for some kind of part-time work.

And then one day, toward the middle of September, he got a phone call.

"Hello, Rockbell Automail Shop."

"Hello, Fullmetal. Enjoying your vacation?"

Ed dropped his almost-professional phone manner instantly. "_Colonel?! _What do you mean, 'vacation'? What the hell do you want?"

"What I _want_ is to stop putting up with blatant disrespect from my subordinates, but apparently that's too much to ask," Mustang said. "Your leave is up today, and I've got new orders for you."

Ed bristled. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Mustang sighed. "So you didn't read _any_ of the paperwork we've been sending you."

"I—I read enough to get the gist," Ed sputtered. "Why's it even matter? If I'm not a state alchemist anymore, then I don't see how you're still giving me orders."

There was a beat of silence.

"…I'm _not _a state alchemist anymore, right?"

Again, silence.

"But I—didn't I sign like a million different discharge forms at the hospital in Central?"

"You signed _hospital discharge _forms at the hospital, yes."

"Wha—but—but I haven't gotten paid, or been assessed, or done anything for the military in, like—"

"In six months _exactly_," Mustang interjected, "thanks to the miracle of human resources. You've been on unpaid extended medical leave, and it ends today."

"What? But why didn't anyone—"

"What, tell you? You were notified in writing _three times_, Fullmetal."

"Alright, fine," Ed said, flustered. "But—but didn't anybody notify the _military _about what happened? I shouldn't have to remind _you _of all people."

"Everyone in military command knows exactly what they need to know about 'what happened'; no more and no less," Mustang said.

"Well, do they know I _can't perform alchemy_?!" Ed yelled, his volume making the receiver buzz. "Isn't that kind of a key requirement?!"

"What the higher-ups care about is whether or not you can do the job, which is using your specific skills and expertise to help the military in a way that standard soldiers and civilians can't. When you left the hospital they asked me to sign off on paperwork stating you could still do those things."

"So, what, you're calling me to say you committed fraud?!"

"_No_, Fullmetal—"

Ed swore. "Will you quit calling me that already? I'm not that guy anymore, I don't know why you have to rub it in—"

"_Ed. _Listen to me," Mustang said, his tone dead serious.

"What?"

"I signed the paperwork because it was true. You _can _still do the job, even without physically doing alchemy. You have skills we need, and there's a place for you here if you're still willing to work with us."

Ed was silent for a moment.

"You still there?"

"Yeah. I…" Edward paused. "Do I have any choice about this stupid job?"

"Of course. Nobody's holding anything over your head anymore. If you really think you have nothing to contribute, then you can come down here, turn in your watch and sign the actual discharge paperwork," Mustang said. "But we've got our hands full with the reconstruction in Ishval, and we'd really appreciate having you on board to help out in the East Area given that you know exactly how, ah, _complex_ this country's history actually is."

"Oh."

"Anyway," Mustang continued, "the first order of business is actually just to have you come down to Central, sign a few things and attend a meeting we're holding. There's a report on its way to you right now, and I suggest you actually read it to find out the details—but we can discuss how you'd like to proceed when you get here."

"So either way I have to come to Central."

"That's right. Thursday at 9AM, Central HQ. We should be finished by quitting time on Friday, so don't worry about it stepping on whatever quaint rural activities you've got planned for the weekend. The big sheep derby, or whatever."

"Sheep _festival_."

"I don't care, Fullmetal. Just read your mail, give it some thought, and we'll see you in a few days, got it?"

Ed sighed. "Got it."

There was a muffled noise in the background from Mustang's end.

"Oh—and the gang here says to bring Alphonse if he's up for it."

"What? Don't tell me you're recruiting Al too."

"No, no," Mustang said, "although he's welcome to enlist, come to think of it. In fact—"

There was a distinct clunking sound, and Ed thought he heard a muffled "Hey!" from the colonel.

Then he heard the very recognizable sound of Lieutenant Hawkeye clearing her throat.

"What Colonel Mustang _means_," she said, "is that regardless of what you decide to do, we'd be happy to see both you and Alphonse for a visit since it's been quite awhile."

"Thanks, Lieutenant—I'll ask him if he's feeling up to it."

"Perfect. Alright, Edward, we'll see you on Thursday."

"S—see you then."


	4. Central, Part 2: Reservations

**Happy Valentine's Day, here's Part Two! I wish I'd had it together enough to churn out something fluffier for today, but I, uh, did not think of that until this morning, and this was already written. Shout-out to reviewer kaoruca: thank you for your wonderful feedback! This chapter was a little bit shorter before, but since you mentioned it, I fleshed it out with a little more detail about Ed's Alchemy Feelings, and I think I like it.**

**The title for this one comes from the song "Reservations" by Wilco, so we're about to get gently angsty. Enjoy!**

_How can I convince you that it's me I don't like,  
When I've always been distant, and I've always told lies  
For love?_

_I'm bound by these choices, so hard to make  
I'm bound by the feeling, so easy to fake  
But none of this is real enough to take  
Me from you._

_Oh, I've got reservations  
About so many things,  
But not about you.  
_

Ed kept the phone call to himself until the next morning—Tuesday—at the breakfast table, when the letter arrived.

"You guys wanna come to Central?"

Winry made a vaguely affirmative noise with a mouth full of homefries from across the table.

"Central? They're calling you back to Central?" Al asked, surprised. "Is something wrong?"

"Not exactly," Ed said. "They just want me to come back to work. _Apparently_ not being able to perform alchemy doesn't actually disqualify me from being a state alchemist."

Everyone at the table looked at him in confusion.

He'd been dreading this moment—having to address what he'd given up. Alchemy didn't factor into his new life in Resembool much—and, he knew, he would make the same choice again a million times over as long as it ended with a flesh-and-blood Alphonse sitting next to him. Out here, at home, it barely felt like a trade-off.

But in Central? Surrounded by soldiers and officers and who knew what else—and thinking and talking about alchemy the entire time? People calling him by his old title, whispering rumours about what he could do—what they'd _seen _him do—and he wouldn't be able to do it. Ever again.

He glanced at his brother, holding his stupid tin camping mug of tea, and pushed the whole train of thought out of his mind.

"Yeah, that was my reaction," Ed said, smirking. "But they want me to be part of this committee to re-evaluate the whole state alchemist program."

"Right," Al said, his eyes lighting up. "Given that the original program was just a tool to find human sacrifices…"

"…The new central command figured it was worth a second look. Exactly," Ed finished.

"Well, isn't that something," Pinako said, taking a bite of her toast. "You're still a government bigshot after all."

"It's just one meeting!" Ed said. "I don't know the whole scope of it yet, so I might not even sign onto the project. I'm just going to find out what they want first."

"When do you leave?" Winry asked, leaning over to refill her coffee.

"Meeting's Thursday morning, so…" Ed turned the envelope upside down and shook, and a thick paper document and two sets of train tickets fell out. "Oh, they booked the train already."

Al picked up the tickets. "Oh man, the 5 AM Express?"

"Ugh," Ed said, grabbing them from his brother. "Okay, so the schedule's not great, but how 'bout it? You up for the trip?"

"I would be," Al said, "but Thursday is when that specialist from East City is coming out here to assess me."

Pinako made a disapproving noise.

"Granny, _why_ do you hate Dr. Whitman?" Winry said.

All Pinako said in response was "Hmph."

"Whatever," Ed said. "So you seriously can't come, Al?"

"Sorry, big brother."

"Aw, man."

"Wait," Winry interjected. "If they sent two tickets, does that mean I can go? I'm all caught up on my work," she added, glancing at Pinako.

"Uh…" Ed looked up from the pile of papers on his lap and met Winry's gaze across the table. "Yeah, I guess. It's not gonna be that exciting, though."

"I mean, I _hope _it's not quite as exciting as the last time you brought me to Central," she said, smirking.

Ed looked away sheepishly. That particular trip had been one big blur of violence—Maria Ross, Ling and Barry the Chopper, _Scar_, the _gun_…

"Ed, I was just kidding!" she said, catching his attention again. "There's nothing serious going on this time around, right?"

He blinked. _Better shut that train of thought down too,_ he thought. "Right."

"I just want to get out of here for a day or two, visit Gracia and Elicia, see some sights," Winry continued, "maybe go shopping."

He snapped out of his reverie. "Really? Shopping?"

"Yeah, I want some new clothes."

Ed and Al both looked at each other and scoffed.

"And?" Al said.

"…And new die grinder burrs," she finished.

"There it is," Al said.

"Plus it'll save me the trouble of heading out there after you once you manage to break your leg somehow," Winry said, "seeing as you basically never make it back here in one piece on your own."

"Hey, when have I ever destroyed my _leg_?"

"I'm just saying, the stats are really against you here."

"What, you keep _stats_ on every patient who breaks their automail?"

"Only the patients who absolutely smash their limbs into pieces, so it's a sample size of exactly _one._"

"Oh, what—_nobody_ else has _ever _smashed a piece of your automail? I find that hard to believe."

"The fact that you find that hard to believe just _proves_ how reckless you are with yours!"

The bickering went on for some time, but in the end it was settled—Winry was coming to Central too, since everything was booked and paid for—and if the Colonel was mad that Winry was there instead of Al he could go to hell.

The day before, Ed had been uneasy about the prospect of going back to military command as an ex-alchemist—and he was dreading how much of the previous year he was going to have to rehash with a bunch of high-ranking officers, not to mention the looks he knew he would get from Mustang's crew, who had all seen him fight with alchemy firsthand. All day after getting off the phone with Lieutenant Hawkeye, all he could think about was how much less in control he felt—how he actually _was _just a kid surrounded by soldiers this time around.

But now, as he was drifting off to sleep on the top bunk on Wednesday night, all packed for the fiendishly early train the next morning, Ed couldn't stop thinking about the last time Winry was in Central. He hadn't thought about it in ages, and now, suddenly, he was full of guilt again. Whatever happened with the meeting would happen—there wasn't much he could do about that. But he could definitely do something about Winry—something to overwrite what he'd put her through last fall at least a little.

As Edward closed his eyes, an image swam into his mind: Winry on the train, about to head back to Rush Valley to work after everything he'd put her through, and him, struck by a sudden wave of equal parts guilt and determination. He remembered how—without planning it, without thinking about it in advance or weighing out the pros and cons or choosing his words carefully at all—he'd made a promise to her, loud enough for the whole platform to hear it.

_The next time I make you cry, they'll be tears of joy._

He'd managed to follow through—but that didn't mean he'd actually made up for how much hurt he'd caused. Ed could still remember kneeling on the ground in front of her, the ground around them all torn up, his face covered in blood and hers covered in tears, after the incident with Scar and the gun. He remembered putting his torn-up jacket around her shoulders, and feeling pathetic that it was all he could do. It still felt like a stone in his stomach.

Images kept running through his head like a strip of film. First it was nothing but victories: gaining the high ground by _making _the ground higher, making doors where there weren't any, pulling spears out of the floor, fixing broken objects in seconds. And then the movie kept playing—he was standing next to the burnt-out bridge on a cliff in Rush Valley, powerless to rebuild it. He was standing in front of Rosé in Reole after taking down the Leto cult, telling her she was on her own. He was kneeling in front of Winry in the alley, surrounded by debris from countless haphazard transmutations, none of which could make her feel any better.

_Guilt doesn't get anything done, _he reminded himself. He took a deep breath. On his slow exhale, he set his brain to work, scanning through everything he knew about Central, about Winry, and he finally fell asleep with the beginnings of a plan.

**Did I say two-parter? Obviously I meant three-parter. We will be hearing more from Ed and Winry on their trip to Central, so STAY TUNED FOR THAT. Up next will be something completely different, but I'll be coming back to this plotline soon for sure. Thanks for reading!**


	5. Come On Up to the House

**Hello again! Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews, they make me so happy! There will be more Central stuff later, I promise. This time we've got a little story about the Rockbell house, and just how much can fit into one small room. The title comes from the song "Come On Up to the House" by Tom Waits, which has _deeply _Pinako vibes, in my humble opinion. Hope you like it!**

_All your cryin' don't do no good  
Come on up to the house  
Come down off the cross, we can use the wood  
You've gotta come on up to the house  
_

_Well, you're high on top of your mountain of woe  
Come on up to the house  
And you know you should surrender, but you can't let go  
You've got to come on up to the house_

It had been a week since the Elric brothers had come home. A still-fragile Alphonse had been given priority for the guest bedroom where Ed had usually slept when he'd visited in the past, and, not wanting to take up one of the patient beds, Ed slept on the living room couch without complaint.

Okay, with some complaint. But not a lot. He didn't say anything about the couch itself, but Pinako picked up on how he was already awake every morning around sunrise when she came downstairs, how stiff he was at breakfast, how he winced and stretched just a little too often.

She also noticed his suitcase, tucked under the coffee table next to where he slept. Edward had never been known for neatness; on the contrary, Pinako remembered with a sad smile how, when the boys were little, Trisha had fought a daily losing battle with Ed's personal tornado of books, toys, papers and snack crumbs. Even Izumi had complained about it on the phone when the boys were training with her—and it had been a constant annoyance for Alphonse, she knew, during the years they were on the road together.

But now, Edward took the blankets off the couch and folded them into a neat stack every morning, and stuffed his clean clothes, books and papers back into his suitcase every night. The only permanent indicators that he was living in the house at all were his toothbrush by the sink and his bar of military-issued soap on the edge of the bathtub.

_Well,_ Pinako thought, _that and all the food he ate. _

Although that, at least, she was glad to see. But as for the rest, she wasn't sure how to get it across to those boys that they were really home for good.

After finishing her eggs and toast, Pinako stepped out of the crowded kitchen for a moment. The kids were still eating and bickering, and she let them be, taking her coffee with her and heading upstairs. When she got to the landing she stopped at the door to the guest room—Alphonse's room—and looked inside. Her eyes moved over the neatly-made single bed, the small nightstand with its stack of folded laundry on top, the bare floorboards and the large bookshelf on the far wall that was piled with medical texts and other reference books.

A very, very long time ago, this room had been her husband's study. When the house and the shop were both new, Pinako had a slight tendency to dominate whichever space she was in while she worked, spreading her sketches and blueprints across every surface and focusing so intensely she snapped when disturbed. Her husband had eked out a separate space early on so that he could do his own work during those occasional moments when she got carried away. It was a good system, especially given that he could never for the life of him stop thinking out loud while he worked.

It stopped being her husband's private oasis right around the time Yuriy was old enough to start paying attention to his parents' work. Pinako remembered with a pang how her son had looked as a bright little boy, sitting on a stool stacked with phonebooks so he was tall enough to see the blueprints spread out over his father's desk. Of course they had all worked together in the shop, and Pinako spent plenty of hours down in the basement with her son, just the two of them, snacking on dill pickles and preserved peaches from the shelves while she taught him how to weld and craft parts. But the study had been Yuriy and his father's space—and when his father died, a teenage Yuriy took it over for himself.

Once he grew up and married Sarah, things were different. The two of them worked as a pair almost all the time, which baffled Pinako. Even when they were fighting or bickering they would still sit side by side at the workbench, silently passing tools back and forth, until they both cooled off. When they weren't in the shop or up in their own bedroom, the two of them often worked together at the kitchen table. Yuriy's father's study sat empty for months on end.

Then, all of a sudden, it was a nursery. An ecstatic Yuriy had actually broached the subject himself; he came to Pinako a few days after the pregnancy announcement and asked her what she thought about using "Dad's study" for the baby, and she had smiled slowly and told him she thought it was a great idea. Then he asked her for help—and there they were again together, for the first time in years, welding in the basement.

It had taken a few hours a day for a week—even though it was a simple design, Yuriy stretched out the work with endless tweaks and adjustments, his perfectionist streak on full display as he checked and re-checked every inch. But it would have been worth any amount of work to see the look on his face as her son led his four-months-pregnant wife to the door and opened it with a flourish, displaying the smooth-edged metal crib he had built from scratch, complete with a mobile hanging above it.

And so the room was Baby Winry's nursery, and eventually her bedroom. Winry had been too young to remember, but there were photos of her when she was very small in what was very obviously the same room. As she grew, the crib was disassembled and relegated to some corner of the basement, replaced with the same twin bed that was in the room now.

Winry had moved into the master bedroom upstairs just before Yuriy and Sarah had gone to the front in Ishval. Giving her the room was one of many things the girl's parents had done to try and cheer her up. Pinako had thought it was a ridiculous idea at the time—it was crazy, she'd said, to spoil her by bribing her out of her misery. She would adjust to her parents' absence, and she would adjust again when they came back.

But, true to their word, Yuriy and Sarah had moved Winry's things up into their own bedroom—all her books and toys and clothes—and let her take over the grown-up-sized bed. Multiple times a day she would walk out onto the little deck leading out from the bedroom and keep watch over the road leading up to the house—she waited for her parents to come back every day like a tiny, chubby sentry.

When, of course, they didn't come back, Pinako was grateful she'd been spared the trouble of closing up their former bedroom like an untouchable shrine, or of painfully converting the space into something else. Most of their personal things were already in boxes, and that gave her time to deal with them slowly enough to cope.

That was how the study became a spare and almost-empty guestroom. After the accident, Ed moved from the tile-walled surgical suite to a patient bed while he recovered from his amputations, and then back to the surgical suite again for his automail grafts, and back to the patient bed to recover from those. It wasn't until the first time he came back for repairs that Ed slept in the guestroom, and he was one of the few who did.

Alphonse, of course, hadn't needed a place to sleep at all in almost five years. But now, looking at his meagre assortment of personal effects, Pinako could tell he thought of the room as a guestroom—and of himself, by extension, as a guest. That wouldn't do.

She finished her coffee, and then set off to find her granddaughter; they had some work to do in the basement.

Three days of a few hours' work at a time (and a few jars of peaches between them) was all it took, and while Ed and Al were playing with Den in the yard Winry and Pinako moved the parts upstairs and got everything set up. When it was ready, Winry went out onto the front steps.

"Guys, come inside," she called. "We've got something to show you."

The Elric brothers came into the house and up the stairs after Winry, standing outside the guestroom door in confused anticipation.

"Ta-da!" She opened the door, revealing the room in its latest incarnation. The bookshelf on the far end had a space cleared to make room for new books; Yuriy's father's old writing desk had been sanded, stained and brought back up from the basement, as well as a proper chest of drawers. And in the middle of the room, where the plain twin bed had sat for years, was a set of brand-new metal bunkbeds.

Edward's suitcase sat closed on the desk, and the top bunk was made up with the blankets he'd been using on the couch.

Pinako didn't say much—she was hoping the gesture would speak for her. And judging by the look on the boys' faces, it had.

"Wh—where did you get this?" Ed stammered, eyeing the bedframe.

"What do you mean, where?" Winry said, laughing. "We built it, dummy."

The brothers glanced at each other, at the bunkbeds, and then back at Pinako and Winry.

"You built this for us?" Al said, almost shyly.

"Of course we did," Pinako said.

There was a beat of silence as Edward and Alphonse both looked at the floor.

"Thanks, Granny," they said.

"Don't mention it," she replied, and turned and strode back downstairs.

**And there we have it. I took a few liberties in making up some of the Rockbell family dynamics, so let me know what you think! I can't remember Pinako's husband's name ever coming up in canon, but if I am mistaken please enlighten me. Thanks for reading-back soon with more! :)**


	6. Central, Part 3:Paying Off The Happiness

**That's right, we're back to the Central plotline! This is just a little baby update, to tide us over until I finish the next two installments-which are a lot longer and way more complicated than I realized they would be when I started writing. You'll...you'll see what I mean when they're ready.**

**This one gets its title from "Paying Off The Happiness" by illuminati hotties, a song about being a millennial in the city with a ton of debt, and also about the complicated business of trying to make up for emotional ****_and_**** material things with, uh, more emotional and material things. For our purposes let's focus on the latter.**

**Thank you once again for your super sweet reviews, I appreciate them so so much!**

_Just the other day I asked, "Could we kick it?"  
You looked away and kept your answer encrypted  
I've made a habit out of shuffling savings,  
And standing toe-to-toe I think we're faking it fine_

_All this emotional debt's got me so lost  
Mmm-I'm stuck with payin' it all off_

"Whoa, look at you in your uniform!"

"Yeah, yeah," Ed looked away, scratching his neck uncomfortably. "Hawkeye said I had to wear it for appearances since the Fuhrer's overseeing things today."

"Have you owned this the whole time?" Winry asked, rubbing her eyes. She was standing in the doorway to her hotel room, still in pyjamas, while Edward was standing in the hall looking like—well, looking like a soldier. "I thought state alchemists got to wear whatever they wanted."

"Usually, yeah, but it depends on context. On an actual battlefield they make you wear the uniform, and if something formal is happening or if you're doing any kind of promotion-grubbing, paper-pushing administrative crap you do too. All the career soldier types wear 'em."

"Right, like Major Armstrong."

"Ugh, don't mention that guy. It's too early in the morning," Ed said, grimacing. "Anyway, no, I _just_ got this stupid thing from the lieutenant. The last time I actually had to be in uniform was like three years ago."

"Huh," Winry said, bemused. "Well, it doesn't look half bad."

It was early Friday morning. The day before, they'd gotten off the train, dropped their things at the hotel, and Ed had been picked up and driven directly to Central Command for a full day of meetings. Winry had spent the day visiting Gracia and Elicia, and then Ed had joined them all for dinner. He'd been reluctant to go, remembering what it had been like the last time he'd been at the Hughes' house, but ultimately it went well.

"Easy for you to say. This jacket's made with one hundred percent wool from home, so naturally it's insanely itchy and it's like a billion degrees."

"Well, thank you for making such a noble sacrifice for this great country," she said, smirking.

"Okay, okay," he replied. "Anyway, I have to go in a sec, but I just wanted to tell you the plan."

"The plan?"

"Yup. So I should be out of the meeting and back here by five-thirty at the latest, and then I'll come back here and change and pick you up for dinner."

"Pick me up? We're not just eating in the hotel restaurant?"

"Nope," Ed said, grinning. "I've got a whole thing planned. I got a restaurant recommendation from Breda, Havoc _and _Hawkeye, which means it's definitely gonna be good."

"Oh! O-okay."

"Yeah, so go ahead and do whatever you feel like until then—I've got a friend who can get you into the main library if you want, the number's with the front desk. And they've got your per diem waiting there too, which is apparently government for 'lunch money.'"

"I get lunch money? Wow."

"Yeah! This is all on the president's dime, apparently, so no need to go easy," Ed said, grinning. "Might as well order some room service for breakfast, too. "

"Wow," Winry said, giggling. "I wish Ling and Lanfan were here to appreciate this."

"Man, those two would bankrupt the entire country if Grumman let them!" Ed said, rolling his eyes. "Anyway…just be ready for six, I guess."

"Alright," Winry said brightly. "So the restaurant—is it really fancy? What should I wear?"

"Uh," Ed had turned and was about to leave already. "I guess a dress or whatever? Anyway, see ya."

"_That's not enough information!" _she yelled down the hall after him as he strode away.

"Gotta go, see you tonight!" he called back, and then he rounded the corner at the end of the hall and disappeared from view.

**Back soon with more! Let me know what you think. :)**


	7. Central, Part 4: Threshold Apprehension

**Nice long chapter, as promised! This is actually the longest one yet, so I hope it's a little more satisfying. I have two more similarly long ones coming up that are both aaaalmost done, because I work best completely out of chronological order, but this one's hot off the presses. It's less thematic and more just plot, but it's fun and it gets us to the next two, which are very fun and I'm super psyched. **

**Thank you once again for your wonderful reviews! It makes me so happy to know you guys are enjoying these.**

**Song for this one is "Threshold Apprehension" by Frank Black, which I think kind of speaks for itself as long as you don't listen too close to the lyrics about "Grand Marnier and a pocketful of speed", which do not factor into this story. Anyway:**

_Talk to the man just to get a little work  
Then you talk to the hand just to get a little jerk  
Some people die, then they start to get old  
But I don't wanna die upon the threshold_

_I got threshold apprehension_

_Have drink, press button, seventh floor,  
And wait a hundred years for the elevator door  
Come a time when you wanna lose the tension  
Ain't your first time having threshold apprehension  
_

"Winry!" Ed called, knocking on the hotel room door. "It's me—are you ready to go?"

He was out of uniform now—and very relieved about it—and had changed into the official One Nice Outfit that Alphonse had convinced him to buy for himself when he'd been sent (with very strict instructions and Ross and Brosh as supervision) to get some new clothes for his younger brother before they both headed home from the hospital after the Promised Day. It was just black pants, a black belt, a white shirt, a black vest and a black tie—very plain, since Maria had vetoed almost everything cool he'd tried to buy. But the vest, at least, had something going for it. It was made from a silky brocade fabric, and it didn't show up from a distance, but up close, in the right light, it had a pattern of swirling shapes, swords and snakes that was very much in line with Ed's taste. It had also come with a silk pocket square with the same pattern, in red, but Ed had lost it almost immediately.

"Coming!" came Winry's muffled voice from inside the room. A moment later the door swung open, and for a split second Ed's mind went completely blank.

In his defense, he'd last seen Winry in this very spot about nine hours ago, and she'd been wearing green and white pinstriped pyjamas and her usual early-morning scowl. But now she was wearing a deep yellow dress made out of some kind of floaty, gauzy fabric, cinched in at the waist with a silk ribbon and flaring out from there, the full skirt reaching just past her knees. (According to the lady at the shop Winry had bought it from that afternoon, it was a honey-yellow cotton-lined chiffon tea-length sleeveless A-line with a sweetheart neck and a built-in crinoline, but the terminology had been lost on her.) Her hair had been swept up into a smooth knot off to one side, and her bangs fell softly across her forehead a little more elegantly than usual. She had a very tiny black purse hanging from her wrist by a little strap.

Edward blinked.

"What?" Winry said, and suddenly she was wearing her usual early-evening scowl. "You left without giving me any details, so if this isn't fancy enough—"

"No, no," Ed said, clearing his throat. "It's fine. It's great. You'll just, um," he paused. "You'll probably want a jacket."

"Oh," Winry said, partially mollified. She grabbed her plain black jacket and slung it over her arm. "Okay, now I'm good to go."

_Ignore the dress, _Ed ordered himself silently. _Ignore it and be normal. It's still just Winry. You see Winry every single day._

He forced his face into what he hoped was a casual half-smile. "Come on, there's a car for us downstairs."

From the minute they stepped into the car to the minute they stepped out of it, the driver had talked incessantly about times he was absolutely one hundred percent positive he'd seen a ghost, of which there were at least eight. Neither Ed nor Winry said much of anything the entire ride, not that they could get a word in edgewise; they just glanced at each other periodically throughout the impromptu Ghost Tour of Central City.

As soon as the car drove off, Winry caught Ed's eye. "Either that guy was nuts," she said, "or we're going to find out he's been dead for seven years and _he_ was a ghost."

"Eh, I've had weirder drivers," Ed said, grinning. "One time in East City there was this guy who had what looked like one of those alligator skin bags sitting in the front seat…"

"Kind of girly, but not that weird."

"That's what I thought too," he continued, "but then halfway through the ride it _moved_, because it was a _live baby alligator._"

"Oh my God!"

"Yeah, I still wonder about that one. Anyway," Ed said, "we're here!"

The restaurant _was_ pretty fancy, with shining pressed-metal ceilings, velvet curtains on all the windows, expensive-looking art on the walls and silk-draped tables all lit with candles. Taking a quick glance at the clientele Winry was relieved to see that it looked like she'd hit the mark dress-code-wise, but it was still a little intimidating. There definitely weren't places like this in Resembool.

"Oh, wow," Winry said. "Are you sure they'll even let us into a place like this?"

"Hey, if they'll let Havoc in they'll let anybody in," Ed replied. "This place is supposed to have really good food, but it's not one of those snobby places where they give you five different forks and make a face at you if you use the wrong one. Plus, don't forget I'm a _distinguished guest of the Fuhrer President_, and you're with me, so that makes us both distinguished, I'm pretty sure."

"If you say so," Winry said, grinning.

They walked in side by side and stopped at the host stand.

"Good evening, sir and madam," the host said warmly. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yeah, we do—under Edward Elric?"

"Ah, of course," she replied. "The rest of your party is already here; if you'll follow me, your table is right this way." She started to lead them through the dining room, and they started to follow.

"Thank y—wait, the rest of my party?"

"Yes," the host replied. "We received a call from your office with instructions to change your reservation from two to seven, so your table is right around the corner."

"A call from—" Ed abandoned his sentence as they rounded the corner and he laid eyes on the table where Breda, Fuery, Havoc, Hawkeye and Mustang were sitting, all in civilian dinner attire. "—_You!"_

"Hey, Fullmetal," Mustang said dryly, a piece of fancy restaurant bread in his hand. "Glad to see you could make it."

The host disappeared back around the corner almost immediately, leaving a furious Ed and a bemused Winry standing by the table.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?!"

"Come on, Chief," Havoc said. "You can't just tell us exactly where you're going for dinner and expect us not to crash it."

"I actually _did_ expect that, oddly enough," Ed said, scowling.

"You should know better, big guy," Breda said, smirking. "Our intel comes with strings attached."

"Yeah, it's an equivalent exchange," Havoc added.

Ed slapped a hand across his forehead and groaned. "You guys are the worst."

"For the record, _I _thought we were invited," Fuery said.

Ed and Winry both sat down in the two empty chairs opposite one another at the end of the table, next to Hawkeye and Mustang.

"Alright, you meddling jerks," Ed said. "You guys remember Winry?"

She smiled and waved, ignoring Ed's indignant rage completely.

"I'm not sure that you three ever officially met Winry," Hawkeye said, "but she was an essential part of our success over the past few years, and especially during the leadup to the Promised Day incident."

Winry blushed. "Oh, no, I just did what anybody would do in my position," she said, looking down at her menu.

"Hey, no need to be modest," Mustang said. "Between keeping this guy up and running—" he pointed to Ed next to him— "and escaping your own hostage situation, you really helped us out."

Winry smiled. "Well, somebody has to keep Ed in line, and next to Al I've got the most experience."

Havoc, Breda and Fuery introduced themselves, and she shook their hands.

"So you've known Ed pretty much forever, right?" Breda asked.

"Yep, ever since we were little."

"So you must know all the dirt on him then, eh? Care to regale us with a story or two?"

"Actually," Winry replied, with a devilish glance at Edward, "I was going to ask you guys the same thing. Ed and Al almost never told me anything about what they were up to while they were traveling, so I'd _love_ to hear some firsthand accounts."

Across from her, Ed reddened, shooting the men at the other end of the table a disgruntled look.

"Boy, oh boy," Havoc said, leaning back in his chair and stroking his beard in mock thought. "Where to begin?"

The embarrassing story exchange went on all the way until the entrées arrived. Winry was making no attempt to hide her amusement, and she smiled maddeningly at Edward as the waitress set down their plates.

"Yeah, you're laughing now," Ed said, scowling over his thyme-braised duck leg with pancetta, chanterelles and roasted red potatoes. "But just you wait until we go to Rush Valley and I tell all _your _work friends about all the embarrassing crap _you_ used to pull."

"Ooh, I'm shaking in my boots," she replied, not batting an eye as she twirled a piece of rosemary-leek-butternut-squash linguini onto her fork. "Not all of us have such a _checkered past_."

"Oh, so you don't remember that time you fell asleep on top of a fresh automail blueprint, and got sent home early from school the next day because the teacher thought you had some kind of contagious skin fungus?"

"_You and Al _started that rumour and you know it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about! I just remember the teacher seeing a girl with horrifying blue blotches on her face and taking swift, appropriate action to stop a potential outbreak of Cyanotype Syndrome."

"I _know_ you guys were the ones who made up that name!"

"Hey, all I did was—" Ed paused long enough to actually get a forkful of food into his mouth, and the rest of his sentence was replaced with an appreciative grunt. "Oh my _god, _this is good."

Winry followed suit, taking a bite of her pasta, and her eyes widened. "Holy _crap_, you're not kidding."

"Told ya!" Havoc called from the other end of the table, his mouth half full of potatoes.

Halfway through the entrees Winry got up to go to the bathroom, and for reasons completely lost on Edward, Lieutenant Hawkeye went with her.

As soon as the women disappeared around the corner, Mustang immediately reached his fork across the table and stole a piece of wild-boar-and-elk sausage from Hawkeye's plate, to general astonishment.

"Jeez, Roy, you really _do _like playing with fire," Havoc said. "Even as a civilian I still wouldn't cross Hawkeye for a second."

"Yeah, that seems like the kind of mistake you only get to make once," Breda added.

"What, are you guys going to rat me out?" Mustang replied, eyebrows raised.

"Nope," Breda said, "but you're still gonna get caught. Hawkeye probably had an exact mental count of precisely how many chunks of sausage were on that plate before she left, the sauce pattern, the exact position of the little fennel sprinkles."

"Yeah, and you're just sitting there with a motive and opportunity," Ed said, smirking.

"Who's to say she'll even be mad?" Mustang said, his tone defensive. "Maybe…maybe I give her one of my roasted cherry tomatoes, and it's a fair trade?"

The other four men scoffed loudly in unison.

"Okay, okay," Mustang conceded. "_Worst_ case, I buy her dessert."

"Worst case you get your lunch poisoned on Monday, more like," Breda supplied.

"Anyway," Mustang continued, ignoring his subordinate, "on to the matter at hand."

"The matter at hand?" Ed asked, taking a sip of his water.

"Yup," Mustang said, and suddenly he, Fuery, Havoc and Breda were all staring intently at Edward.

"Uh—what—"

"Alright, spill it, chief," Havoc said. "Are you—or are you not—on a date with your mechanic friend right now?"

Ed immediately and spectacularly choked on his water, dissolving into a coughing fit that lasted a full minute.

"Why would you say that?!" he gasped when he finally surfaced again, his face beet-red.

"I mean, it's a fair question, Fullmetal," Mustang said.

"Yeah," Fuery added. "You _did_ get all dressed up to bring her to one of the best restaurants in the city, after all."

"And this _is_ specifically one of the best _date_ restaurants in the city," Havoc said.

"Wait, it is?"

"Yeah, I thought that's why you asked me for advice!"

"I also asked Breda and _Hawkeye_ and they both said this place was great; don't tell me the Lieutenant is going on secret dinner dates here or something too."

"I can't really picture that, I gotta say," Fuery said.

"Whatever," Ed said, flustered. "It's not a _date_, I just wanted to take Winry somewhere nice to make up for the fact that the last time she came to Central was a gigantic nightmare."

"When was the last time she was in Central?" Fuery asked.

"That two weeks last fall when you guys fake-murdered Lieutenant Ross, set Barry the Chopper on the loose, nearly got killed by the Homunculi three or four times, and Winry ended up coming face-to-face with Scar with a gun in her hand?" Ed spat.

"Oh."

"Yeah, so I kind of have some ground to make up. Anyway," he said, his tone normalising again, "if you guys thought this was supposed to be a date, what the hell are you all doing crashing it?!"

"Why do we do anything in our off-hours?" Mustang said, grinning. "For fun and profit, obviously."

"Wait, profit?" Ed asked.

"Yeah, we _may_ have a bit of a betting pool going," Breda said.

"You _what?!"_

"Hey, hey," Havoc said. "Letting him in on it could skew the results!"

"Yeah, I'll skew _your_ results," Ed muttered. "Anyway, it's _not_ a date, so you guys are out of luck."

"Now, hold on," Mustang began.

"What?" Ed snapped.

"This is your long-time childhood friend, a girl your own age, who's had your back basically your entire life."

"Uh. Yeah."

"And you've carefully planned a special evening for just the two of you, for the express purpose of making sure she has a good time and likes you better afterward."

"I mean, I guess."

"And she doesn't have, I don't know, some other thick-skulled teenage boy kicking around who's already taking her on quaint romantic strolls among the crops back east, does she?"

"_What?_ No. I mean, I don't think so."

"And—well, I don't mean to stereotype just because she's an automail engineer, but she's not, you know, playing for the same team as we are, so to speak?"

"I—what?"

Havoc and Breda both snorted, while Mustang covered half his face with his palm and sighed.

"Fullmetal, _how _is this not a date?"

"Wha—listen, you matching set of asshats. Just because I decide to take Winry to a nice restaurant and the movies doesn't mean—"

"Wait," Breda interrupted. "You're taking her to the _movies_ after this?"

"Yeah, there's a show at nine-thirty," Ed said, still defensive. "Why? What the hell's the big deal about the movies? Me, Al and Winry used to go every month back in Resembool when the projector guy came through town."

"Oh, _kid_," Havoc said, shaking his head. "You seriously don't hear it?"

"Dinner and a movie, Fullmetal," Mustang said. "I'm pretty sure that's the _example _they give in the _dictionary_ when you look up what a date is."

Havoc snorted again. "You do a lot of looking things up in reference books before you go on dates, Roy?"

"Focus, Havoc, we're making fun of _Ed _right now."

"Right. Sorry, boss."

"So, wait," Fuery said. "What does this do to our betting odds if he's still in denial?"

Ed roared in frustration, then bent over his plate and focused on eating in irritated silence until Winry and Riza came back to the table.

**More soon! Couple of notes: **

**I got that thyme-braised duck leg dish from a real recipe online on Food and Wine, and it sounds reeeeally good (if a little time-consuming), so if anybody has the energy to make it, please google accordingly, cook, eat and report back.**

**Falman isn't here because he's too busy up north; I didn't forget him!**

**I spent way too long googling pictures of pretty yellow dresses while writing this.**

**At a later date I will probably write another one-shot to fill in the embarrassing stories the gang told about Ed, as well as what Winry and Riza were talking about in the ladies' room. But next up will be THE MOVIES. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! **


	8. Central, Part 5: Cold Light

**Hey guys! Hope you're all healthy and self-isolating to beat this pandemic. This is one of THREE more chapters about Ed and Winry's maybe-date-situation in Central, even though it was only supposed to be one originally. They keep getting longer and I am helpless to stop them.**

**Thank you so much to my lovely reviewers! You guys are the best! A note: given that we ****_know_**** Ed and Winry get together in the end, but we don't really know what their whole Deal is during the big "85%" scene before Ed goes west, I've decided to chart their progress toward that point using what we DO know about Edward Elric: namely, that while extremely smart, he is super frickin' dense. He's also spent years and years repressing and ignoring his emotions, for both trauma and stubbornness reasons, which is why it's not so easy for him to just figure out how he feels or what to do about it. So, uh, this is all to say that you're gonna want to smack him (and maybe me) by the end of this chapter. But hang in there!**

**The song for this one is "Cold Light" by Operators, and since this is my fic and I can do whatever I want, I'm gonna let it lead us off:**

_Put your heart in the hands of the city  
Workin' hard when you're not around  
And ooh, you sure look pretty  
Oh, while your feet are movin' on the ground_

_Some people born and they never wake up,  
Some people born and they got it all  
But me, I just can't stop  
I can't stop until I really fall_

_Go home, go home,  
Baby, it'll be alright  
Put your life into the cold light  
Put your life into the cold light_

_So do you, do you wanna dance?  
Do you wanna take the long way home?  
And do you stop, entranced, my love?  
You know, I could never be alone_

After finally breaking free of their uninvited entourage, Edward led Winry out of the restaurant and through the back courtyard.

"Where are we going now?" Winry asked, following him through the patio area that had been closed up for the season. It was right around nine, and the sky wasn't dark yet but there was a definite chill in the air. They passed the hedges and then the dumpsters, and then Ed led her through a narrow alleyway between two brick buildings she couldn't identify from behind.

"It's a surprise!" Ed called over his shoulder. "This is just a shortcut."

At the end of the alley, they stepped out onto the main street. It was the civilian core of downtown Central City, where there were shops, restaurants, bars and nightclubs, independent hotels—all manner of things that had nothing to do with military command. It was a wide cobblestone street that banned cars, dotted instead with food carts and sidewalk cafes serving a leisurely crowd of pedestrians. It was Friday night, and the people of Central were out in force, spilling in and out of restaurants and pubs all the way up the street.

"Alright," Ed said, turning to Winry as they both stood at the edge of the street. "So up that way a couple blocks is the market square—" he pointed to the left with his thumb "—and we'll head there later. But over _here_ a couple blocks—" he continued, pointing to the right, "—is where we're going now."

Winry looked at him curiously, then surveyed the street in front of them. _There are a ton of restaurants here, and we just ate—and obviously we're not going to a bar, unless for some reason Ed thinks it's my lifelong dream to get kicked out for underage drinking, which would be…well, hopefully it's not that. So then what else…_

Her eyes widened as they landed on the brightly-lit marquee sign jutting out over the street in the distance.

"Oh my God, are we going where I think we're going?!"

Ed paused. "Uh. Do you think we're going to the movies?"

Winry shrieked with enthusiasm, making no attempt to contain herself. "Ahh, I'm so excited! I've always wanted to go to an actual cinema! And they're getting better all the time, apparently, too—this place could have so much incredible tech that we've never even seen! And look at the size of it—they must have a really sophisticated setup to be able to show pictures to that many people every night. I wonder what kinds of projectors they're running? Aaah, I hope they'll let me take a look after the movie!"

Edward grinned, shaking his head a little. This was a better reaction than he'd hoped for. "Jeez, Winry, I didn't think it'd be _that_ big a deal. It can't be that different from the movies we've seen at home, right?"

She turned sharply back towards him. "Can't be that different? Have you never been to one of these places before? You and Al have spent so much time in the city."

"Yeah, but we didn't exactly have a ton of time to mess around! I don't think I've actually seen a movie at _all_ since before Al and I went to Dublith to train."

"Well, you've been missing out," Winry said, grabbing Ed by the arm. "Let's go! Even the movies Mr. Greenboro shows at home have come a _really_ long way in five years, and whatever they've got in Central is bound to blow those out of the water."

"Okay, okay!" Ed raced to keep up with her as she all but dragged him by the arm down the street toward the glittering lights of the cinema marquee. "Jeez, you don't have to pull so hard. This was my idea, remember?"

"Sorry," she replied, loosening but not releasing her grip on his right bicep as they kept moving.

Half a step behind her, Ed could see the edge of Winry's wide smile, and he could feel the warmth of her hand gripping his arm through his shirtsleeve. He still wasn't used to it. They weren't moving _that_ fast—but he felt his heart speed up.

…

In Resembool, on the last Saturday of every month unless something got in the way, a man named Mr. Greenboro arrived by train with his film projector in a big leather suitcase, and he set up shop for an evening in the Jacksons' barn. Maisie Jackson herself would hang two white bedsheets across the far wall, and he would set up his projector up in the hayloft. Then two or three dozen people from town would file in, paying two hundred cenz at the door each, and take their seats on bales of straw arranged in long rows. Maisie and her daughters would sell lemonade or apple cider depending on the season (and rye, if you knew which daughter to ask) and some kind of snack, and then Mr. Greenboro would show the first few movies.

There was something new every month, but always within a given format—there was usually a five-minute reel of slapstick comedy, acrobatics or stage tricks of some sort, then often ten minutes of some kind of documentary. Sometimes it was footage of grizzly bears fighting at Mount Briggs; other times it was shots of Cretan tribespeople with their elaborate clothing, or of coal miners or factory workers or fishermen living their day-to-day lives. Then, usually, there was a message from the Führer-President, which anyone with a projector license was strongly encouraged to play.

After that came an intermission, where the kids typically ran amok in the barn and the adults took a chance to mingle. This was, historically, the part when a young Winry would climb up to the hayloft and start haranguing Mr. Greenboro to let her look at the projector, until he either acquiesced or kicked her out.

Then came the main event—a twenty- or even thirty-minute movie. Ed and Al's longstanding favourite had been _The Fly-Man_ (because it had an alchemist in it) but Winry had been a bigger fan of _Doctor Llewellyn's Machine_, which had a robot. They had also seen the one about the bank robbers, the sequel to the one about the bank robbers, the one about the farmer who grew giant vegetables, the one about the princess who joins the circus, and the one about the moon.

In theory, the films all came with piano scores, and they were meant to be shown with specific live music—but in Resembool, they were shown alongside the dulcet tones of Old Man Jackson's accordion. He had a habit of editorializing quite a bit when he transposed the sheet music, and tended to shout out commentary on the movies while he played.

All this was to say that going to the movies in Resembool was a _very specific experience_, but it bore very little resemblance to going to the movies in Central.

It was dawning slowly on Edward—as he and Winry stepped under the dazzling lights from the marquee toward the box office, where a girl in a neat navy-blue uniform took his money through a gap in a little glass windowpane and handed him two elegantly-printed paper tickets—that he didn't actually know much about the world they were walking into at all. He had thought of going to the movies as kids' stuff, since he'd _been _a kid the last time he'd had a chance to go. But as they walked into the crowded lobby, an elegant room with high ceilings, marble floors and gold-painted moldings, the wood-paneled walls covered in framed movie posters and big mirrors, he realized they might actually be the youngest people here. There were a few groups who looked like they could be older teens or young twentysomethings, but most of the people lined up for the concessions stand or waiting to enter the theatre looked like, well, actual grown-ups.

Ed had been working for the military long enough that he wasn't fazed anymore by being the youngest person in every room, and he wasn't easily wowed by modern big-city things like this anymore either. Maybe he'd just been back home for too long; he didn't expect to feel so out of place, but suddenly he was craving Maisie Jackson's apple cider.

"Oh, wow," Winry said, taking in the sight of the lobby. She hadn't let go of his arm. "You think they've got enough haybales for all these people?"

Ed laughed. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

As they headed into the theatre to find seats, Edward caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the big decorative mirrors lining the walls. He almost didn't recognize himself. Somehow he'd been expecting to see a much younger, scrawnier kid looking back at him, sticking out like a sore thumb and looking pissed about it. But instead there was a guy in a nice vest with a girl on his arm, and he didn't look out of place at all.

They managed to get seats—real, velvet-upholstered seats—almost dead centre, since they'd skipped waiting in line for snacks.

"Jeez, just _look_ at these," Ed said, poking at the material on the arm of his chair. "What is this, the frickin' opera?"

"What's the feature called again?" Winry asked, checking her ticket stub. "_The Beasts of Devil's Alley_?"

"Yeah. You haven't seen it already, have you?"

"No, I haven't even heard of it. It must be brand-new."

"Uh-huh, that's what Fuery told me. He's pretty big into this stuff." Ed shifted casually in his seat. "Supposedly it's some kind of crime movie? It's about gangsters, or mobsters, or something."

"Al_right_!"

Just then the lights dimmed, and the stragglers out in the lobby hurried to their seats. Then there was an odd clattering sound Ed couldn't place, and he looked up toward the front of the room to see a tiny little middle-aged woman in a dress covered in more sequins and beads than he'd ever seen in his life crossing the floor. With a final rattling noise, she settled at the upright piano in the front corner of the room. Then the red velvet curtains were drawn slowly open, revealing the huge silver screen—easily four times as big as the "screen" in Resembool—and the pianist began to play as it lit up.

Ed stole a quick glance at Winry next to him as the title cards for the first cartoon were rolling. She was smiling widely, her eyes bright, staring intently at the screen and looking genuinely thrilled. _So far so good._

The cartoon was about—of all possible things—a three-legged dog. It was some kind of hound with big floppy ears that looked nothing at all like Den, and its life seemed to centre entirely on stealing sausage links from butcher shops, but it was still enough to make Winry tap excitedly on Ed's hand next to her on the armrest and point. They both laughed.

Ed kept watching, but found himself distracted within minutes as his eyes adjusted to the low light. The cinema audience was almost wall-to-wall couples. Practically everybody seemed to be sitting in pairs.

_Whoa, hey, _he reminded himself, _just because a pretty sizeable amount of guys and girls are sitting in pairs doesn't mean they're all on dates. You're just making an assumption._

As if on cue, the guy sitting in the very next row yawned and stretched very conspicuously, bringing his arm down around the shoulders of the girl next to him. Ed cringed automatically.

_Well, that's just about the lamest thing I've ever seen, _he thought. _Not only did that guy pull the cheesiest move possible, but he basically just announced to the whole theatre that he was too much of a wimp to just actually go ahead and put his arm around a girl like he meant it. What a dumbass._

Then he watched as, to his disgust and confusion, the girl in question leaned her head on the guy's shoulder.

_Ew, what? How did that actually work? How can she reward that kind of behaviour?!_

Ed shifted in his seat and tried to focus on the screen again. When he went to lean on the opposite armrest, his forearm bumped against Winry's, and his little finger brushed the side of her hand. He pulled back, startled at the sudden contact.

"Oh, sorry,"he whispered.

Winry shot him a mild, quizzical look that said _sorry for what? _Then she looked back up at the screen, apparently unbothered.

Ed felt his face get hot as he forced his attention back onto the movie in front of him, although he couldn't pinpoint exactly why.

**Heh. Told ya. But don't worry-more coming soon! That detail about the guy bringing a projector to Resembool is actually canon-it's mentioned in the FMA Guidebook (the only one they released in English), and of course the bit about the Fly-Man is mentioned in the manga (and is also a real movie, minus the alchemy bit). The rest I made up. I've been researching a lot of real film history for these chapters and it's all so cool-and it's got me brainstorming really heavily about what the movie industry in Amestris would be like, given that they have a lot of decent tech but extremely fraught borders. I'm not sure how much of that will actually make its way into the story, but I'm honestly having the time of my life. I also think it makes a lot of sense for Winry to be big into movies, because hey, it's mechanical engineering that creates the illusion of life! That's her jam! We'll get into that more in the next chapter, though.**

**Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you think, stay safe out there and I'll be back with more soon.**


	9. Central, Part 6: Big Shot

**Hey guys! Thank you so much for you reviews-they've lifted my spirits like crazy. It makes me super happy to know that you're enjoying this story and that it feels authentic. I'm not gonna talk too long this time since my author's note got real real long last time, but I am REALLY excited for this chapter. It's a long one, so buckle up.**

**Song title is "Big Shot" by The Pack a.d., a song about an egotistical jerk who thinks he's right all the time. Spoiler: he is not.**

_I think I said, "The end is coming,"  
You said, "That's great, I'll be king."  
Well, you're a jerk, quite a piece of work  
I think it's fun that you're so dumb._

_Screw your indignity  
You're no Chips Rafferty  
More like that ape on the tower  
Crushing planes by the hour_

_Ooh-big shot._

The crowd cheered and clapped as the title card for the feature appeared. _The Beasts of Devil's Alley_, starring "the enchanting Antonia C. Wilde" as Lady Marie, and "the enigmatic Marshall Q. Armstrong" as the leader of the Beasts.

Winry turned to Ed and grinned excitedly, practically bouncing up and down in her seat.

The title card faded out to reveal the opening shot of the movie—a long pan over a city neighbourhood in dim light.

Ed and Winry turned to each other immediately, eyes wide.

"Holy…!"

"I know!" Winry hissed, trying to keep quiet. "I told you! It's getting better all the time!"

"It looks _so real,_" Ed whispered, shaking his head in amazement. He'd been so used to the jerky, grainy movies from five years ago, all shot from the same camera angle and with plenty of weird little light blips and aberrations.

Then the camera closed in on Lady Marie walking into her apartment building and climbing the stairs, passing through a gaggle of suspicious-looking criminal types with low-drawn hats and cigars on the way to her door.

One of them opened his mouth to speak, a creepy, leering expression on his stubble-covered face, and then the dialogue appeared.

_"Hey, hey, this is no place for a little lady like you to be walkin' home alone. What do you say me and the boys escort you home?"_

The card faded and the screen showed the man silently finishing his sentence.

Lady Marie shook her head and kept walking, and the gang followed her.

_"Aw, come on, lady—we'll do it for free, so long as we're compensated for our time."_

Lady Marie took off running up the next flight of stairs, and the gang continued to tail her, leering all the way. The camera followed them as they moved.

At the top of the stairs another shabbily-dressed man with a low-brimmed hat and a curling mustache was leaning against the wall smoking a pipe. Just as Lady Marie reached the top step, the man with the stubble reached out to try to grab the end of her scarf.

In one motion, the man with the mustache swung an arm out and punched him, sending him flying backwards down the stairs and knocking his gang members down with him like a row of dominoes.

Back in real life the audience whooped and clapped as they hit the floor.

Onscreen, Lady Marie looked at her rescuer in shock, then hurried into her apartment. Just as the door was closing, she spoke.

"_Thank you!"_

The man with the mustache tipped his cap at her, then turned and headed back down the stairs, stepping over unconscious gangsters as he went.

Then, as he stepped back out onto the sidewalk, he started off down the street and turned off into an alley, where he met up with a gaggle of men in long trenchcoats and low-brimmed hats, all shabby and suspicious-looking. One of them looked up, revealing a face full of odd piercings, and greeted him.

_"Hey boss, good to have ya back. We just got word about a big shipment of nice new radios that, ah, recently fell of the back of a truck and are lookin' for a good home."_

The man with the mustache grinned shrewdly.

_"Looks like I'm just in time. Let's get back to base so you can give me the details—hopefully we can move 'em all before anybody notices they're gone. We could sure use the dough, but we can't afford too much heat on us right now neither."_

The camera held still as the men headed further down the alley, and then moved further back, revealing one of the men who had been knocked out on the staircase peering around the corner of the building. He was sporting a fresh shiner on one eye and looked a little worse for wear, but it was clear from his expression that he'd heard everything.

He met up with his unsavoury friends again at the entrance to the building and told them the big news.

_"So listen—turns out that guy who caught us off-guard just now wasn't no small-time thug—he's the leader of the Beasts!"_

The gang reacted in a flurry of silent gasps.

_"Exactly, but that's not all! Turns out they've got a lead on a bunch of stolen radios—real high-end stuff. They're making plans to move 'em right now at their headquarters, so I say our payback is gonna have a much better rate of return than we thought."_

The men looked back at him in confusion, and he clapped a hand over his forehead in exasperation before explaining.

_"I mean, the best way to hit back at them is to either intercept the stolen gear and move it ourselves, or wait until they've moved it and rob them afterward. So we're getting revenge AND a lot of cash."_

The others squinted and nodded extremely slowly, comprehension dawning on them at a snail's pace, and the audience laughed.

Winry was getting into the story, watching eagerly as the setup unfolded: the two rival gangs' longstanding feud that was rapidly approaching its boiling point, Lady Marie's dire financial situation as she cared for her sick mother alone in her tiny apartment, and the growing turmoil between the leader of the Beasts' unforgiving street instincts and his resurgent conscience. Everything from the costumes and makeup to the sets and the dialogue created a very believable world, and she found herself getting wrapped up in the characters' lives as the action heated up.

During a lull in the story, she found herself thinking about Edward next to her. This was the first movie he'd seen in years, and she wondered for a moment whether he was enjoying it too, or whether it was all a little tame to him by now. _He's been in all these intense fights and stuff for years, _Winry thought. _It's probably only exciting for people like me who don't see a whole lot of real action._

She glanced quickly over at him, and to her surprise he was staring at the screen in rapt attention, enthusiasm written clear as day across his face. He even clasped his fist together triumphantly in a tiny little victory motion as Marshall Q. Armstrong's character landed a particularly well-placed punch.

Winry smiled and turned back to the screen. _Okay, _she thought, _scratch that: this is one hundred percent up his alley._

It really was. Ed hadn't expected to like the movie so much, but he found himself getting very into the way the rival gangs bantered with each other, the way they fought, the way they got to deliver cool one-liners…he was tense with excitement, and he had to admit that a real piano instead of a decidedly worse-for-wear accordion made a real difference.

There was something else, too. Every so often, to set the scene, the camera panned over the run-down neighbourhood where the story took place—and it looked oddly familiar.

It wasn't until the camera panned over the exterior of Harold's Pawn and Thrift that Ed figured it out, and then he felt ridiculous for not clueing in sooner. He grabbed Winry's hand to get her attention.

"Winry, that's Dublith!" He practically hissed the words, trying to whisper and shout at the same time.

"What?"

"The city! That's where Al and I did our training! I've _lived_ there! That must be where they filmed the movie!"

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Positive. I can't believe I didn't realize it sooner."

"That's so cool!"

"I know!"

Just then, onscreen, the rival gang began moving in on the Beasts' headquarters, which so far had only been seen from inside. But now, gangsters armed with brass knuckles and bats were heading down an alleyway towards it, and the audience finally got a glimpse of the outside: the hole-in-the-wall entrance to a small, seedy bar with a sign that said—

"The Devil's Nest!" Ed hissed, squeezing Winry's hand. "No frickin' way!"

"What?!"

"That's a real place! I've been there too!"

"No way!"

"Yeah, I'll tell you at intermission."

Ed's hand was still curled around Winry's. He wasn't thinking about it, but it was there. Both of their eyes were glued intently to the screen now.

…

When the first roll of film ended, the theatre's lights came on with a string of distant popping sounds. There was a general chorus of murmurs as people stood up and stretched.

"Come on," Ed said, offering Winry a hand and practically yanking her out of her seat. "Let's go get some snacks—Fuery says they're an essential part of the cinema experience."

"Oh, well, if they're _essential_," Winry shrugged, grinning as they headed out to the concession stand in the lobby.

The line was already long, so they had several minutes to kill.

"Okay, so spill," Winry said, turning eagerly to look at Ed. "You've really been to the real Devil's Nest?"

"Yeah, and it was pretty insane," he replied. "Okay, so—you remember how—" he lowered his voice a little. "You remember how Ling was Greed?"

"Kind of. The homunculus was…sharing his body?"

"Exactly. Well, _before _he was sharing Ling's body, he was this completely other guy, in his original, totally artificial body…"

"Okay…"

"…And he had sort of _rebelled_ against the other homunculi, so instead of being part of the whole big plot with the nationwide transmutation circle and all that, he was the ringleader of this big gang of small-time criminals and military deserters in Dublith, just livin' it up with a bunch of ladies and all these chimera friends of his."

"And so the Devil's Nest was…?"

"That was _his bar_, yeah! That's even what it was really called!"

"No way! So how did you guys get mixed up with him, if he wasn't working with the others?"

"Well, they kind of kidnapped Al."

_"What?!"_

"But obviously I got him back, so don't flip out!"

"Are you serious? What happened?!"

"Uh…" Ed paused, adjusting his collar sheepishly. "Well, they wanted information from me about how to transmute a soul—as in, how to put a soul into a suit of armour—so I pretty much marched in there and told them to go to hell."

"Oh, so—"

"Except—wait, no, at the time I wanted information from them too, about how to create human bodies with alchemy, because we still didn't know, y'know, all the stuff we found out later."

"So you…"

"Yeah, so I figured I could definitely take this Greed guy no problem, and then I could get what I wanted and take Al with me without giving anything up."

"Of _course_ you did," Winry said witheringly.

"Hey, it almost worked!" Ed protested. "It took me awhile to figure out how to weaken his shield, and he might've gotten in a few hits here and there, but I practically had him before Bradley showed up with an entire army and secured the whole place. Then he took off."

Winry squinted at him for a moment.

"Wait—if this happened in Dublith, then does that mean—"

"I mean, it was so long ago, who even remembers—"

"Are you talking about that time you came crawling back to Rush Valley with _all_ your plating missing?!"

"Yeah, okay, but it all worked out, didn't it?"

"_Did_ it work out, or did you get the absolute snot kicked out of you because you rushed into something insanely dangerous without thinking?"

"I don't see why it can't be both!"

"Ugh," she sighed and shook her head. "You're something else. Anyway it's almost our turn, so you'd better buy me some serious candy."

"Okay, okay," Ed replied, rolling his eyes as he pulled out his wallet.

They walked back to their seats in silence, arms laden with chocolates, gummies, milk duds, sour candies and a bottle of soda each.

It wasn't long before the lights went down again, a hush fell over the crowd, and the little be-sequined woman at the piano started playing again. The image of Marshall Q. Armstrong surrounded by enemies in a tense gang standoff appeared on the screen, and the audience cheered.

He punched one guy in the nose, flipped another one over his shoulder, and ducked a third guy's blow, letting him collide with a fourth guy charging from the opposite direction. Then, suddenly, he froze in place.

_All _the characters froze in place. The image on the screen flickered a little, jerked up and down slightly, and then held totally still.

Then it was hastily replaced with a card that said, "EXCUSE OUR TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES".

A disgruntled murmur rose up from the audience.

"Aw, man," Edward said through a mouthful of sour candy. "I hope this doesn't take long."

"I wonder what's wrong?" Winry replied, daintily popping a single milk dud into her mouth. Then she took a long sip of her lime soda. "Must be something serious if it's slowing down a big cinema like this on a Friday night."

"Try to contain your excitement, machine geek," Ed smirked.

"I'm not taking criticism from a man with eight gummy worms in his mouth."

"Listen—" Ed grabbed another gummy worm from the bag and shoved it in with the rest (it was actually only five). "—don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

"Ew. Anyway, I really want to find out how this ends! Whatever's wrong, I'm sure they can fix it—a place this size has got to have a dedicated repair person, right?"

"Probably," Ed replied, taking a sip of his cherry soda. "Oh wow, this does _not _pair well with the green gummy worms."

"Here, try mine."

Ed leaned over and took a sip of her lime soda. "Hey, not bad!"

"Wow, there's really an art to this, huh?"

"I'm an alchemist; I know what I'm doing," Ed said, holding up a single green gummy worm with a gravely serious expression.

Winry giggled. "Wow, it's great to have an expert on hand."

Just then, there was a series of _pops_ as the lights started coming on. A tall, well-dressed man was coming purposefully down the theatre steps towards the middle of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the cinema manager bellowed, his voice equal parts showy and slimy. "Unfortunately, our projector has malfunctioned and is in need of servicing, but the repairman is presently unavailable and we are unable to continue our feature presentation as a result."

The crowd groaned en masse; a few people booed.

The manager was tall, broad-shouldered and middle-aged, with stiffly-waxed silver hair and a pale, smarmy-looking face, cleanshaven with the exception of his incredibly sharp sideburns. He wore a white suit and a black bowtie, and he wasn't sure what did it, but Ed immediately disliked him.

"Due to the fact that more than 51% of the show has already elapsed," the manager continued, "we are unable to offer a full refund, but we will welcome you back at a reduced rate on Monday through Thursday at matinee showings only. Please see our ushers on your way out to receive a voucher as our thanks to you."

A wave of indignant muttering swept across the crowd.

"I'm a mechanic," Winry said eagerly, standing up and striding out into the aisle. "I'd be happy to take a look at it if you'd like."

"Oh, no, young lady," the manager chuckled. "I appreciate the offer, but I think you'll find this sort of thing is best left to the professionals."

The smile dropped off her face, replaced with an icy-calm anger Ed recognized all too well. He got up and stood next to her while she addressed the manager. "Well, if the _professionals_ aren't available, I think _you'll _find that the next best thing to a projector repair guy is a third-generation automail mechanic with ten years of experience."

The manager's eyebrows shot upwards, and he turned his head towards Edward. "Really? You have ten years of—"

"What?! Me? No," Ed snapped, looking back at him incredulously. "She _just_ said—"

The end of his sentence was lost in the sound of Winry's exasperated groan.

"Wait here," Winry spat, and before Ed could respond she darted up the stairs and climbed the metal ladder to the projection booth. The projectionist had left the door ajar, and with a quick glance at the theatre manager on the floor below her, she slipped inside.

"Miss!" the manager cried, indignant, starting up the stairs after her. "It's not safe for a young lady to be up-"

"Relax, Pops," Ed said, grabbing him by the shoulder. "That 'young lady' is a weapons engineer; pretty sure she can handle a six-foot ladder."

_Okay_, Ed thought, _so it's been a long time since Winry's actually installed a weaponized prosthetic. _

He was embellishing for dramatic effect a little. But she _could_ make some kind of terrifying automail missile-launcher-arm if she wanted to, so it was still true. Just like it was technically true that she had ten years of experience, since she'd started helping her family in the shop when she was six or seven.

"What?! That little girl is an engineer?" the manager said, disbelieving. "She certainly doesn't belong up there poking around at my state-of-the-art motion picture equipment!"

For a split second Ed surprised himself—he wished he could roll up his sleeve and show off his automail right arm to this dumbass, who was clearly the bankroll and not the brains of the theatre operation.

"State-of-the-art equipment is practically her middle name, so I wouldn't worry," Ed replied, trying to keep indignant rage out of his voice.

_We're here to have a normal night out, _he reminded himself._ You are not allowed to punch this asshole._

Behind them, the rest of the moviegoers were getting antsy, their collective murmurs reaching a dull roar.

"What's going on?" a young man in a tweed suit asked. "Is it getting fixed after all?"

"Yeah," an older lady added, "or are we gonna get our money back?"

Several others chimed in to say the same, and a few couples near the front started getting up to leave. The manager began to sweat visibly.

Ed turned away from him and back toward the crowd.

"Give her fifteen minutes," he called.

There were some enthusiastic noises from the audience.

This wasn't what Ed had been imagining when he planned out a nice evening. _But come to think of it,_ he thought, _for Winry, getting her hands on some new piece of machinery for free is probably more fun than just a movie anyway._

Up in the projection booth, Winry had taken the silk ribbon from around her waist and used it to tie her bangs out of her face. She'd been absolutely furious on the way up here, but now that the projector equipment was in front of her everything had clicked into focus again. She carefully removed the film rolls from the machine (taking great care to remember which frame they'd been at) and set them aside. Then she checked the power source (always the first step).

It _had _been running smoothly, and the picture had been clear before the film had gone off-track completely. That was lucky, because it meant she wouldn't have to mess around with any of the focal modifiers at all. The side panel of the machine was covered with knobs and levers that adjusted lenses, and she decided firmly to leave them to the trained projectionist. She didn't want to get ahead of herself—it may not have been an electric limb interfacing with living human nerves, but it was still a precise machine well outside her own specialty.

_Don't get cocky_, Winry reminded herself. _Just focus on what's in front of you._

She'd seen movie projectors up close before, but really only Mr. Greenboro's, which was much smaller, plainer and less sophisticated than this one. And she'd never really been allowed to dig into it properly or fix it when it broke down or anything like that, either, although she had gotten to see it in action and help take apart the major pieces and put them away a few times. That meant that without enough specific knowledge, she was relying on engineering principles, mechanical logic and her gut instinct.

Next she checked the machinery for any basic sprocket obstructions, loose bolts or broken bands. No dice from above, but it was clearly some kind of pure mechanical issue; the film itself seemed in perfect shape—not tangled or crunched up at all—so it had clearly been wound correctly. She bit her lip in thought for a moment, then lowered herself to the floor to see the projector's guts from underneath.

While she did all this, the scrawny, freckly projectionist—a boy not much older than her—stood in the corner of the booth and watched timidly.

As soon as she'd entered the little room she had eagerly fired off a dozen different technical questions to diagnose the situation, most of which had been met with confusion and terror.

"I don't know—I just work here," he'd said, stepping aside and granting her access to the machine.

_No kidding_, she thought, and she got to work.

After a few minutes he was handing her tools from the maintenance kit on the back shelf and searching for the manufacturer's schematics under piles of empty chip packages and magazines. She would tighten a bolt here and readjust a belt there, then try the manual crank and try to isolate the source of the jam.

"Has this ever happened before?" she asked the projectionist, her face and hands hidden under the machine.

"Uh," the young man faltered, "sort of? But last time it was because the film melted."

"It _melted_?"

"Yeah, and we had to order a whole new print—and the regular repair guy had to take the whole projector apart to get rid of all the melted bits of twisty film."

"Yikes." Winry paused for a moment, thinking. "Did you ever find out why it melted?"

"I dunno, I guess it just got too hot."

_Very insightful_, Winry thought, resisting the urge to scoff out loud. _Hmm._

There was no foreign matter like grit or oil buildup throwing anything off as far as she could see, and all the parts lined up with the manufacturer's schematic, so the overall looseness wasn't caused by a loose screw or a missing part anywhere. Working from the outside in, she realigned each of the gears and pulleys until she got to the central one closest to the light source—and bingo, there was the issue.

The belt that connected the primary reel to the speed control mechanism was overstretched, and she knew why—it was still warm to the touch, even. She unhooked it carefully and examined it. It was leather, and had clear, fresh-looking stretch marks all the way around.

Replacing the belt was an easy fix, provided they kept spares on hand—and she couldn't imagine why they wouldn't—but that wasn't really the source of the issue. Leather machine belts naturally stretched over time, but not this fast. Between this and the melted film story, clearly something was heating up that had no business heating up.

"Hey," Winry said, turning to the projectionist. "What can you tell me about the light source on this thing?"

The young man brightened a little, eager for a question he could answer. "It's an arc lamp!"

"Right. Okay."

She stepped toward the lamphouse and gingerly touched its metal casing. _Ow. Hot. _Using the edge of her long skirt to insulate her hand, Winry opened it and looked at the lamp inside.

"Could you read me something from the manufacturer's specifications, please?" she said, squinting at the extinguished glass bulb.

"Sure thing."

"The, ah, size and resistance of the carbons they recommend for the lamp?"

There was a small pause.

"If it's not in the schematics," Winry continued, "it's probably in the section on _fire prevention_?"

There was a slightly longer pause.

Winry let out a withering sigh. "Let me see that," she said, grabbing the manual from him.

Comparing the chart in the instruction booklet to the carbons in front of her—the two dark, waxy columns inside the lightbulb whose resistance created a bright electrical arc, which was then caught by a parabolic mirror and focused by a set of condenser lenses onto the strips of film—it was immediately clear that they were the wrong size and weight. She removed both with a pair of pliers and dropped them on the counter.

"How long have you been using these carbons?" she asked sternly.

"S—since last week," the projectionist stammered. He had slowly put together that he had a reason to be nervous. "The manager said they'd be more _efficient_ so he had us start using them for every show."

"They're efficient alright," Winry scoffed. "Efficient at burning down an entire city block. These are obviously not rated for the voltage of this projector—that's why the machine keeps overheating! You're lucky all you've had so far is a stretched belt and some crispy film."

The projectionist blanched. "I—I didn't know!" he stuttered. "He didn't say—"

"Yeah, I'll bet he didn't," Winry said. "But it's okay; we just need to swap them out with the correct ones."

She read him out the specifications for the properly-rated, manufacturer-approved carbons, and, sure enough, he opened a cupboard door overhead to reveal a few remaining boxes of them, hidden behind stacks and stacks of the wrong ones.

Together they changed the lightbulb carbons and the belt, oiled and realigned all the moving parts, and carefully loaded the film. The projectionist explained each step as he spooled the film (starting right at the beginning again) and refocused the lenses.

When everything was set, he plugged in the power source and gave her a shaky grin. "Now for the moment of truth. Ready?"

She grinned back, a little shaky herself. "Ready."

The bulb came on with a _pop _and the projector whirred to life, making what Winry recognized as the healthy sound of a consistent machine. Outside the booth the screen lit up again, dim at first but getting steadily brighter as the lamp warmed up, and a cheer rose from the crowd below as they recognized the first half of the scene they'd had cut off.

Both teens in the booth shouted triumphantly, and they high-fived.

"You did it!" the projectionist said.

"Yup," she said, untying the ribbon from her hair and shaking it loose. "See ya!"

He stared after her, dumbfounded, as she darted back out of the projection booth.

The freckly projectionist signalled the pianist, who had stood up to stretch, and she bolted back to her place at the upright piano in the front left corner, sequins rattling all the way. Within seconds, she started back into the score. As the cinema lights dimmed and the screen came into clearer focus, Winry scrambled back down the ladder and beamed at a waiting Edward.

Wordlessly, she gestured to the screen with both hands in a triumphant flourish.

"Nicely done, machine geek," Ed conceded, grinning. The two of them fell into step and breezed past the stunned manager as they strode back to their seats.

Instead of looking pleased, though, the manager looked furious.

"Jeez, this guy really didn't like being proven wrong, huh?" Ed whispered as they sat down, shooting a glance over his shoulder. "He looks like he's trying to incinerate you with his mind or something."

"You're not far off," Winry whispered back. "I'll explain after the movie's over."

**OOOH, INTRIGUE.**

**Okay, so a couple of notes:**

**Firstly, I did a metric BUTTLOAD of research for this chapter, including what kinds of movies were around IRL in 1915. "The Beasts of Devil's Alley" is based in part on a real movie called "The Musketeers of Pig Alley", which you can actually watch for free on Wikipedia because it's public domain. I also downloaded this public-domain honest-to-goodness 1910s operating manual for movie projectors and theatre management, and dang, you guys, it was a complicated business. FYI, "carbons" were basically the equivalent of lightbulb filaments, which are the lil squiggly boys inside of incandescent lightbulbs. Instead of changing the whole lightbulb, for an "arc lamp" you would just change the carbons. If picturing this accurately is important to you I suggest you google it because it's hard to explain.**

**The main thing you need to know for this chapter, though, is that yeah, early movie equipment posed a LOT of really serious fire risks, and after a few very nasty movie theatre fires, most cities got very very strict about fire prevention. The film used used to be super flammable, the lamps (ie big ol' light bulbs) threw a ton of heat, there were a lot of electrical parts and not a lot of people who really knew how they worked, everybody smoked inside-it was fire hazard city, man. So it got pretty tightly regulated pretty quick.**

**I couldn't decide if Amestris should have popcorn or not, since it's based on a fictional pseudo-Europe, and the presence of corn implies a fictional pseudo-North America, and that just sent me down a whole mental spiral that I didn't have the patience for, so instead it's gummy worms. I definitely mentioned potatoes and tomatoes already, though, so, uh...never mind. Maybe next time they'll have popcorn. Why am I obsessed with fictional countries conforming to produce patterns that match the Columbian Exchange?! I don't know!**

**Anyway, there's a lot of other stuff going on in this chapter as well, so please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading; back soon with more! :)**


	10. Central, Part 7: Glass House

**Hey gang! We're back with more, and this is the final chapter of the Central arc (finally! for real!) that was originally supposed to be a two-parter. It's EdWin-focused and it is Banter City, located in the heart of Dense Boy County. This is a little shorter than the previous chapter but still PRETTY DANG LONG, so I hope you like it! Wherever you are, I hope you're safe and healthy and staying home as much as possible so we can beat COVID-19 sooner rather than later.**

**I was trying to hold out for more reviews before I posted this next one but I'M TOO EXCITED, and honestly I am blessed with the finest regular reviewers in all the land, so you guys take your time. :P Thank you for your wonderful feedback so far!**

**Song for this one is "Glass House" by Kaleo, after the expression "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones".**

_I don't need much,  
I don't need another friend  
Bittersweet touch,  
You don't see me holding hands_

_So keep on walking,  
You know I'm doing the best I can  
Look who's talking,  
I'm your man, I'm your man_

_Throwing rocks at the glass house,  
Throwing rocks at the glass house all night long  
_

After the movie ended, Winry quickly briefed Edward on the situation.

"So he's cheaping out on the equipment, which is breaking the equipment?" Ed said, squinting. "Seems like the kind of problem that's gonna solve itself pretty quickly."

"No, you don't get it," Winry replied, shaking her head. "Didn't you read about what happened in New Optain two years ago?"

"New Optain? I think I fought a guy from there, but I don't see how that's relevant."

"It's _not_. Two years ago they had a cinema like this in New Optain, and it _burned to the ground_ and _six people died_, and a bunch more got hurt."

"Oh."

"Yeah—and the reason the fire started is that movie film is made of nitrocellulose, which is—"

"—_Super-_flammable because it's made from potassium nitrate?" Ed interjected, comprehension dawning on his face.

"Exactly."

"Oh my god, and the free oxygen that would be released when it burned would mean you couldn't just extinguish it with water, because—" Ed stared into empty space in front of him, visualizing chemical compounds.

"I don't know about that," Winry said, "but yeah, it's made of crazy chemicals and sits next to a hot lightbulb."

Ed looked nervously over his shoulder at the projection booth. "So this place is a _death trap_, basically?"

"It wouldn't be if the manager was running it right. Plus I fixed the projector, so relax." She took a final sip of her lime soda, then continued. "There are all kinds of precautions cinemas are supposed to be taking now—and even Mr. Greenboro has this whole asbestos box setup for his projector so he doesn't set the Jacksons' barn on fire. But it seems like this guy doesn't get how big a deal they are. I'm going to go talk to him."

Winry stood up, and Ed followed suit.

"You really think he's going to listen to you?" Ed asked, brushing bits of sour candy dust off the front of his clothes. "He didn't strike me as being super open to criticism."

"He was kind of rude, but that doesn't mean he's _completely _unreasonable," Winry replied. "I'm sure he'll take this seriously once he understands it.

When they actually came face-to-face with the manager again ten minutes later, he was in his office in the back of the building, impatiently smoking a cigar in his chair while Winry calmly explained her concerns and Ed waited in the doorway just behind her.

At first he gave her a perfunctory, dismissive thank-you and tried to shoo her and Ed quickly out the door, but Winry dug in her heels. She paraphrased herself politely, twice, and was brushed off both times. With her last shred of patience, she kept her composure and tried one more time.

"I don't think you understand—this is really serious. If one part of the projector setup isn't up to code, there could be a lot of other issues too, and that puts everyone in the building in danger. You should really have the fire inspector in here as soon as possible."

At that, he stood up, taking a step closer to Winry so he was looming down over her. His demeanor shifted ominously.

"Young lady, you need to learn to start minding your own business," the manager snarled. "A little girl from out in the sticks might not understand the finer details of running a successful enterprise, but I own an _empire_ of cinema houses just like this one, and it's only getting bigger. The city can put up their little bits of red tape here and there to try and slow me down, but they know as well as I do that it's all baseless fearmongering. I'm giving the people what they want, and I'm not about to let some pencil-pushing inspector stand in my way. My brother-in-law is a _sergeant _in the _military police_, so I wouldn't put your nose where it doesn't belong."

He was well over six feet tall to begin with, but the man seemed like he was getting bigger as he spoke, his chest puffing out like a ruffled bird. As he paused for breath Ed stepped into the room, stopping half a pace behind Winry.

"This business is a numbers game, and if I have to bend a few _conventions_ to make my operations more efficient then that's what I'm going to do. It's a calculated risk," he continued, "and managing risk effectively is what investments like this are all about, end of story. I'm going to run my theatre however I damn well please, fire 'precautions' be damned, and there's nothing you and your little boyfriend can do about it."

When he finished speaking he was red in the face and radiating sour rage, evidently sure he'd been sufficiently intimidating.

Ed and Winry shot each other sidelong glances, their eyebrows raised.

"Really?" Winry said, her tone unsettlingly bright. "Not even if one of us had, say, an exact technical understanding of just how much damage you almost did, and the other had a very interesting piece of jewelry?"

"What are you—" the manager stopped dead as his eyes landed on the silver watch Ed had just produced from his vest pocket.

"You know what this watch means, Pops," Ed smirked, "or do you wanna call your brother-in-law down here so he can explain it to you?"

"He—but—you—"

"What's his name? Maybe you already know him, Ed," Winry said.

"You know what, maybe I do," Ed said, matching her cheerful tone. "He might even have mentioned me before without you knowing it. See, I'm not real big on formalities..."

"That's for sure," Winry chimed in.

"So I don't usually have the MPs address me as Major Elric, even though I could have any one of them court-martialed if I wanted to," Ed said, smiling. "Chain of command, y'know."

The manager blanched.

"I hope you don't mind if we borrow your phone," Winry said, grinning as she breezed past him.

…

Some time later, Edward and Winry both finally stepped out of the popcorn-and-tobacco cinema air and into the street, exhaling in relief.

They had both given very formal testimony and signed official affidavits, expressing the very serious fire risk to the police and staying stern and sober as the manager had been taken for questioning.

But now, out in the fresh air, full of sugar and adrenaline, they caught each other's eyes and burst out laughing.

"Oh my god, that guy!" Ed wheezed.

"He thought he was such a big deal! The way he was talking—"

"Like a gangster movie reject!"

"Exactly! And he was acting so tough at first—"

"—and then the next minute he thought you were going to actually murder him."

"If you didn't have that watch, I might've," Winry said, snickering. "If I'd had a blunt object on hand instead that probably would've gone differently."

"Oh yeah. He thought he was such a badass when he started talking—but every time he said 'young lady' I could see you making that wrench-throwing face."

"He's just lucky I didn't still have a wrench on me."

The two of them fell into step side by side and started walking down the main street, back towards the market square. It was just after eleven, and the bars and restaurants were all still open. It was chilly out, but the avenue was brightly lit and there were plenty of people around.

"Really? You don't have one in your little purse or in your pocket or something?"

"This purse is barely big enough to hold the ticket stubs! Plus girls' clothes like these don't come with pockets," Winry said, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

"What? Where are you supposed to put stuff?"

"Beats me."

"Well, even so—the Winry _I _know would still have a spanner strapped to her leg or something."

"Well, the _Edward_ that _I _know would have flipped out on that guy an hour ago for calling him little, but here we are and you didn't even notice."

"Oh, I noticed," Ed replied. "But in case you weren't aware, I've actually grown as a person in recent months."

"You've grown a couple inches, I'll admit, but I don't know about 'as a person.'"

"Aw, come on! It's like you can't even see my cool vest."

"That's a normal suit vest."

"It has a POCKET just for my WATCH."

"IT'S A POCKET WATCH."

"I know! And there's a pocket watch pocket! Now it looks much cooler when I pull it out."

Winry laughed. "It was pretty cool back there, I'll admit. Intimidating. I think you made that guy pee himself a little."

"Yeah," Ed said with a cocky grin. "It's what I do."

"_That's_ what you do? Make guys pee themselves?"

"What? No! Shut up!"

Winry snorted. "That must really be a niche field."

"You're the worst."

"Now I can see why they take those licensing exams so seriously. The military wouldn't want just anyone walking around with that kind of power."

"Oh my god, I'm never taking you anywhere again."

"Wow, so this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see you in action!"

"Now this is just gross."

"Boy, what a night, seeing such a high-ranking government official on the job."

"Okay, that much is true," Ed sighed.

He paused. They had arrived at the entrance to the market square, and Winry gasped as they passed through the archway and the fountain came into view. They both stopped to admire it, with Ed looking nervously at Winry to gauge her reaction. _So far so good, _he thought.

It was a series of round stone pools stacked high overhead like the tiers of a giant cake, with sculpted, gilded lions in all manner of poses at every level, streams of clear water curving from their mouths. There were tendrils of golden ivy wound around the edges of the pools, and they were so shiny that Ed thought it must have been someone's full-time job to keep them polished. There were gas lamps installed strategically between the jets, and they were all lit now, sparkling as the silver arcs of water rose and fell. The gold trim caught the light beautifully, so that the entire fountain seemed to shimmer.

This was one of the fanciest, most opulent and most shamelessly over-the-top landmarks in the city, and it really lived up to its reputation. He had been planning on taking Winry here to see it, but it looked even better than he'd hoped. So that made exactly _one_ part of the night that had gone how it was supposed to.

"I guess things ended up being kind of… 'exciting' after all," Ed said, suddenly sheepish. "Sorry about that."

Winry stopped and looked up at Edward in the lamplight. His eyes met hers and he was a little caught off-guard by the way the lights from the fountain reflected in them.

"Hey, don't be sorry! I wasn't trying to guilt-trip you about last year—I was just kidding when I said that."

"Yeah," Ed said, his voice heavy, "but…none of that last year should've had to happen. I shouldn't have put you through all that."

Winry clicked her tongue, looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite name. "Ed, you don't need to keep feeling bad about that. It wasn't great, but obviously I _know_ now what you guys were up against. I _get _it."

"Really?"

"Well, yeah," she said. "And even just now—well, I kind of get how easy it is to get caught up in something dangerous because you think you can fix something."

"Heh. No kidding," Ed replied. "We really lucked out that that jerk wasn't some kind of actual mob boss. That could've gone _really _badly, and you just rushed right in."

It was Winry's turn to look a little sheepish, but she was still smiling. "I can't believe _you're_ lecturing _me _about doing something reckless."

"Ha!" Ed pointed at her in mock triumph.

"Ugh, don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm extremely mature and there's nothing you can do about it." He punctuated the statement by sticking out his tongue.

True to form, Winry did it back, and they both laughed.

"But seriously," she said, "I _get_ how knowing you're able to set something right can kind of…push everything else out of your mind. I definitely wasn't worrying about consequences back there—I just knew I was right and I knew what to do about it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! And I guess I should feel a bit bad for jumping in without thinking, but…"

"But what?"

She grinned in spite of herself. "It actually just felt really great to stop that guy. I wasn't scared for a second. And it kind of made me realize that's probably why it's so easy for you to get into trouble so often."

Ed looked down at her, too surprised to say anything snarky in return. _Oh._

She had such a clear, potent _something_ in her eyes, meeting Edward's dead-on, that he had to look away. He didn't know what was happening to him, but he felt his cheeks grow way too hot and felt a sudden and powerful need to stare at cobblestones at his feet. Maybe the fountain was _too_ good an idea.

"Uh," he began, pointing abruptly past the fountain, "there's a stall over here with really good hot chocolate and those fried dough things."

"Oh," Winry said, caught off-guard. "Uh...sure, I could go for a hot chocolate."

"Great." Ed shoved his hands in his coat pockets and strode ahead, leaving Winry scurrying to catch up, his cheeks still burning.

Okay, maybe he had a slight inkling as to what was happening to him. But he was _not _going to think about it right now. He was going to eat a fried dough thing. He was going to eat as many fried dough things as he had to.

…

They spent an hour or so wandering around in the market square, eating late-night snacks from the stalls, people-watching and talking. They got paper fortunes from a cheesy coin-operated machine near the fountain, and Ed refused to read his out loud.

"What are you being so superstitious for all the sudden?" Winry asked him, straining to reach the little slip of paper as he held it up over her head. "Let me see!"

"It's not superstition!" Ed protested, still holding it away from her. "I just don't wanna read it out."

"Why, is it something embarrassing? Or is it something good and you don't want to jinx it?"

"No! And I don't even believe in jinxes!"

Then Winry stood up on the bottom edge of the fountain to make up their height difference, and she reached for Ed's wrist, suddenly well within range—and in one motion he grabbed her arm with one hand and her waist with the other, and flipped her over his shoulder, depositing her with her feet on the ground facing the opposite way.

She shrieked in surprise, but he'd moved so fast and he'd set her down so gently that it didn't fully register right away what exactly had happened.

"Did you…did you just _flip_ me?" She blew a loose strand of hair away from her face, annoyed.

"You took the high ground! I had to take evasive action!"

"You can't just _flip people_ in the middle of the street!"

"Well, you can't just _steal from people_, but here we are!"

"Whatever! Just let me see it!"

"Too late, I dropped it in the fountain."

"If it weren't so cold out I'd drop _you _in the fountain."

"Oh, _well_, I appreciate your consideration. Anyway, did you even read yours yet?"

"Oh, I forgot!" Winry unfolded the little slip of paper. Then she tried and failed to stifle a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

She was doubled over laughing, and barely surfaced to hand him the fortune.

_Your life will soon be turned upside down._

"See," Ed said, snickering, "now aren't you glad you got it out of the way?"

They were still laughing by the time they got back to the hotel. It was well past midnight, and they had to buzz the front desk at the door to have the night concierge let them in. They thanked him and headed up the stairs together, their cheeks a little rosy from the cold.

They paused at the door to Winry's room—Ed's was two doors further down the hall.

"Well, that was _extremely_ not what I had planned for tonight, but at least nobody got hurt, right?" Ed said, a half-smile on his face.

"Are you kidding? I _told _you already, I had a great time!" Winry sighed and shook her head.

"I know, I just—you really mean it? You're not just trying to make me feel better because I said I felt bad earlier?"

"Ed, I've been your mechanic for five years. When have I _ever _sugar-coated anything for you?"

He laughed, subconsciously rubbing his right shoulder at the memory of dozens of Winry's blindingly painful nerve connections. "Okay, okay. You're right."

Winry leaned against the doorway, absently twisting a strand of hair that had fallen loose from the elegant knot on her left side. "That food at dinner was _amazing_," she said. "And I loved the movie, obviously. And it was nice getting to just hang around and be tourists."

"Hey, we're not _tourists_, we're here on _business_."

"Shut up, you know what I mean! Just being normal and getting to hang out together without feeling like the world is ending."

"Yeah," Ed said softly. "I liked that too."

There was a half-beat of silence, and they both looked at their shoes. Then Ed lifted his eyes again, and she felt the intensity of his gaze on her face before she even looked up to meet it.

He took a step closer to her, and tentatively put a hand on the side of her shoulder. He had an expression on his face that she couldn't name, but she'd seen it on him before.

"I…" he faltered, biting his lip. He leaned in a little closer.

_That's it_, she thought. _It's the same face he makes when he's studying—when he's reading and he's trying to memorize something._

"Thanks for coming with me," Ed said finally, and he gave her shoulder a tiny squeeze and then let it go. "G'night!"

He whirled around sharply and strode down the hall to his room before Winry even had time to process what had happened. He opened the door, stepped in, and then stuck his head back out into the hallway to call out to her.

"Check-out's at noon tomorrow because it's Saturday, and the train's at one, so no rush, eh?"

"Got it," Winry said, nonplussed. "Good night!"

"Night, Winry," he replied quietly, and then he shut the door, and that was that.

In her own room, Winry locked the door, took off her boots, sat down on the edge of the bed and started pulling bobby pins out of her hair. She dropped them onto the nightstand next to her one by one with neat little _click_ sounds as she tried to make sense of what the hell had just happened. She was exhausted—definitely reaching the end of her snack-induced sugar rush—but part of her brain was going into overdrive trying to analyze the night she'd had, and it was overwhelming.

In all honesty it had been one of the best nights she could remember having, period. Easily the most glamourous, by a mile, which made it even weirder that Ed had orchestrated the whole thing. And he was himself, absolutely—but also this completely different person, this new _version_ of himself that she hadn't expected.

He had actually _talked_ about where he'd been and what he'd done, unprompted, without being asked to or forced to. He'd just casually told her about his life and how he felt about things, like they were normal people. Like they were close. That was _majorly_ different, and it had to be a good sign.

And she felt—well, she felt different. It had been awhile since she'd come to terms with her feelings for Edward, but obviously things were complicated. But suddenly she felt like there was something _between _them—like it wasn't just her feelings in her head. Like maybe—_maybe_ he was actually having the same ones.

She shook her hair loose, finally, slipped out of the fancy yellow dress and crawled into bed.

Winry wasn't sure how much of this feeling was just wishful thinking on her part. But she wasn't crazy—he _had _taken her out for the whole evening, on purpose, just the two of them.

They'd gone to _dinner and a movie_, for crying out loud. Obviously they ate dinner together practically every night anyway, and they were out of town so of course they ate at a restaurant—but still. It had a certain undertone that she was almost positive she wasn't imagining.

But this was Ed, and he was dense as a ton of bricks, so it was entirely possible that he hadn't put any of that together at all. She knew that was a _very _real possibility.

But even if that were true—there was still that moment, wasn't there? That moment by the fountain where it looked like he might've been—well. He was freaked out about something, that much was obvious.

And then just now, by the door! What the heck was that, if NOT him thinking about kissing her?

_Oh God, _Winry thought, with sudden horror. _What if it was him trying to figure out whether _I_ thought he was going to kiss me, and he wasn't going to at all, and now he's flipping out about it?_

There wasn't any doubt that Ed cared about her; that much was definitely clear. They were well past that. But they were both growing up now. Did he have any idea how she felt about him? Did he have any idea how _he _felt about _her? _Was he lying in the next room trying to make the same mental risk/benefit analysis she was right now, weighing out how scary it would be to actually broach the subject of the two of them being more than just childhood friends?

She could build up such a solid case in her mind—but then she could poke holes in it just as easily. It was exhausting.

_Who are you kidding? _Winry reminded herself, sighing and rolling over. _It's Ed. He probably fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow. He's not full of emotional turmoil; he's just full of fried dough. He's not thinking about you at all._

Two doors down, a still fully-dressed Ed was sprawled across the couch, his limbs splayed at odd angles, radically misusing the furniture as only lanky, preoccupied teenagers can. He had one hand behind his head, and the other was holding a tiny, wrinkled slip of paper in front of his face. He was staring up at it, looking at once furious, skeptical and terrified.

_When you open your eyes to the possibility of love, do not be surprised to discover it right in front of you._

**THERE WE GO! The Central arc! Complete!**

**I'm going to keep writing more EdWin stuff that follows this continuity, but I'm probably going to bounce around a bit first. I think next up will be something about Al, because frankly I'm neglecting the poor guy. We might even check in on Mustang and friends again soon, who knows! Next update will probably take a little longer. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think! :)**


	11. Get It Wrong, Get It Right

**Hey gang! Thank you a GAZILLION TIMES for all your sweet reviews! I finally learned how to reply to them directly, so if I haven't replied to yours yet know that I plan on it soon. I was absolutely blessed with nice comments to read! Feelin' the love over here.**

**Anyway. Here is a chapter I wrote ALMOST ENTIRELY TODAY (yesterday; it's like 1AM now, sigh). This was supposed to be the introduction to a very exciting plotline about a very fancy dinner party being hosted by a very fancy guy, but I wrote the first sentence and then immediately got sucked into a tangent, and, well, it's like 2000 words now. Featuring Ed, Izumi and the alchemy inherent in breakfast foods! How appropriate given the title of this fic, eh?**

**Song for this one is "Get It Wrong, Get It Right" by Feist, a soothing, gentle song about being out in the countryside and figuring things out bit by bit. That's the vibe.**

_Wind on the fields,  
Blowing your hair  
Weaving gold, weaving gold, weaving gold  
Weaving gold, hand to hold  
Hand to hold_

_Cold outside,  
Warm by the fire  
Get it wrong, get it wrong, get it wrong  
Get it right, get it right  
Get it right_

It was early Saturday morning, and Ed was making pancakes.

It had been part of the weekend routine at the Curtis household when he and Al stayed there as kids, and Sig and Izumi had reprised the tradition when they'd stayed for a few weeks last year too. He didn't know what reminded him of it now, exactly, but for whatever reason he'd fallen asleep the night before craving pancakes for breakfast something fierce. He'd even dreamt about them. And so, when the neighbours' stupid defective rooster woke him up by crowing a solid two hours before the sun came up, he lay awake for twenty minutes, thinking pancake thoughts, until finally deciding to get up and get to work.

He did his best to climb quietly out of bed—not an easy task with a metal leg and a metal bunk bed ladder—so as not to wake Alphonse, who was still sound asleep in his bunk. Then he crept out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. From the top step, looking back for a second, he could see that Pinako's door was still shut, so she wasn't up yet—and there was a strip of light coming from under Winry's door, which usually meant she'd fallen asleep with the light on again.

_Typical_, he thought, smirking as he headed downstairs.

He was dressed in flannel pyjama pants and a black military-issued t-shirt, and took one step out the front door before stepping back in to grab a jacket. _When did it get so cold?_

Outside, the sky was getting lighter but it was still dotted with stars. The grass was wet with dew, and Ed tucked his pant legs into his boots so they wouldn't get soaked as he went out to feed the chickens. Luckily, the hens had also been woken up by the neighbours' rooster; they were already fussing away inside the chicken coop, scratching and pecking in the straw. They swarmed at his feet when he opened the door.

"Whoa, whoa, one at a time, ladies," he said, stepping back and throwing down a handful of grain. "There's plenty for everybody."

He could see his breath, but only a little. The chickens didn't seem to mind at all. He grinned at the sight of them eagerly scrounging in the grass around him. Something about it felt so _straightforward. _You're hungry, you want eggs; chickens are hungry, you feed the chickens, you get eggs. Simple.

This time last year, his life had been anything but. Where had he even been at the end of September? Central? Dublith? East City? The desert? The horrifying blood-dimension inside Gluttony? So many things had happened in such rapid succession, and he'd traveled so much that he couldn't even place himself. He'd have to check the dates on his old notes later just to figure everything out. Either way, he wished he could send a message to the Edward of last September, wherever he was, to let him know that in a year's time he'd be home in Resembool feeding the chickens while Al was asleep.

It was still quiet in the kitchen when he came back in, basket of fresh eggs in hand, and he got to work. After washing up, he lit a burner on the stove to put the kettle on, then scooped a generous amount of ground coffee into Pinako's custom-made steel-mesh drip-filter coffee cone contraption (which had a name, but Edward couldn't remember it right now).

Then he got down all the ingredients from the cupboards, one by one. Flour. Salt. Baking powder. Vanilla extract. Milk—_crap, do we still have milk left? _They did. Plus the eggs. And then the bowl, the whisk, the flour sifter, the measuring spoons.

Ed didn't cook much; it wasn't exactly a priority when he was on the road all the time. He mainly ate at hotel restaurants, barracks cafeterias and sidewalk food carts. But this recipe, at least, he knew by heart. He knew to crack the eggs sharply on a flat surface, not the edge of a bowl, because they broke more cleanly that way and that meant fewer little eggshell bits. He did it with one hand—his left, since he didn't trust his right hand's co-ordination quite that far yet—and didn't drop a single piece.

He beat the eggs quickly and thoroughly, then poured in the milk, then the vanilla. Then he measured the dry ingredients into the sifter and began to sift them over the egg mixture, bit by bit, whisking the two together in the bowl with his other hand.

Izumi had taught him that baking was a lot like alchemy: you had to combine everything in the right amounts, at the right speed and in the right order, or you wouldn't get what you wanted. You couldn't just eyeball things or throw things together; Izumi could, but that was because she knew how everything worked well enough that she knew exactly which variables she was manipulating and by how much. That was a lesson she liked to reiterate to him and Alphonse: _just because I make this look easy doesn't mean it actually is._

At the time he didn't get it, thinking the whole thing was a pretty juvenile exercise given that he was here to learn the science of deconstructing and reconstructing matter. As such, Ed's first attempts at pancakes were lumpy disasters; his next batch had been overmixed, thin and flat. He kept trying to skip over being careful and following the instructions, and he kept being rewarded with terrible results for breakfast. Al's had been much better, except that he'd been unable to decide whether he wanted blueberries, strawberries or chocolate chips and had added all three, and the results were just _weird_.

Thinking about it now, Ed realized his teacher had gone to huge lengths to convince him, in so many ways, that there was no such thing as a real shortcut. If you cut corners, if you skipped a step, you always had to pay for it in the end.

And then he remembered the Sunday morning when the lesson had finally sunk in—at least on the culinary level, if not the philosophical one—and he'd made his first perfect pancake. The batter was finally the right consistency, and he'd carefully poured it into the hot cast-iron skillet, slick with butter. Sig had shown him how to time flipping it, and then finally it was on his plate, golden-brown and delicious, and he felt amazing.

After that, he'd tried to make pancakes via alchemy instead, and somehow it didn't work at _all_. Izumi had found him at the kitchen table, surrounded by crumpled-up transmutation circle designs and bowls full of sad piles of wet flour, and asked him what the hell he was doing.

"Trying to make pancakes," he'd replied lamely.

"Ed, you made pancakes _yesterday_. You know how to do it. So what's all this for?"

"If baking is just like alchemy, shouldn't I be able to transmute a pancake instead of baking one?"

His teacher laughed. "Eventually," she said, "but how's it working out so far?"

Ed paused. "Not so good," he admitted.

"Exactly. And do you know why?"

"Because I haven't found the right formula yet to—"

"No," she said, cutting him off, "because you're trying to create one single transmutation that handles a dozen different chemical processes at the same time."

"What? But there aren't even a dozen ingredients!"

"That doesn't matter! Look," she said, "I know you're used to working with rocks, metals and sand, and you think flour is another random inert substance. But it's _organic matter_. It's made of plant cells, and it has a complicated protein structure. It's going to take you a lot of studying before you're able to understand on a molecular level how the glutenin and gliadin combine."

"But I can figure it out! The amino acids have to—"

"I'm not finished," she said. "And then once you've produced a gluten solution, you're going to need to produce the leavening reaction, which is done with—"

"That just puts air in the batter, so why do I have to create the reaction first? Can't I just put the air bubbles in myself?"

"You could try, but then you'd lose the components from the neutralization reaction, which are what?"

"W…water, salt and carbon dioxide?"

"Exactly. So where are you going to get the extra water and salt that the batter should have?"

"I'll just use more ingredients to start with! That shouldn't be that hard."

"But how will you keep them separate from each other? And how will you get the extra aeration that the baking powder releases when it's exposed to heat?"

"I'll…wait, it does that?"

"Yup. And that's not even approaching the question of the Maillard reaction."

"The what?"

"That's the reaction between amino acids and sugars when exposed to heat, which is what makes the outside all golden-brown and tasty like they should be, instead of pale and quivering like whatever you have going on here."

"Oh." Ed paused. "Well, I can still figure that out! It's just a matter of—"

"It's a matter of making more work for yourself than you can even fathom right now to reproduce the same work you can do by hand in ten minutes, that's what it is," Izumi said firmly. "And even if you do finally figure it all out—and you're right, given enough time and energy you _could_ do it, you'll know how to make exactly one pancake with one specific recipe, and it _might_ taste more or less the same as a normal one. But if I take this milk and replace it with buttermilk, for example," she continued, picking up the glass bottle on the table, "or, say, Alphonse is in the mood for blueberry pancakes, or you're using whole-wheat flour instead of bleached, you're going to have to start your array completely from scratch, because you haven't actually learned the functional skills you need to use what's already in front of you."

"But—" Ed sputtered, still clinging to his idea. "But if I want to learn alchemy, isn't it better to try it, to understand how things are put together?"

His teacher sighed, fixing him with the exhausted stare of every adult who's had to argue with a child too smart for their own good. "Well, you've tried it now, haven't you?" she said. "But we've talked about conservation of mass, and about conservation of energy. When it needs to, an alchemical transmutation uses energy from the movement of tectonic plates. But it never pulls more energy from that source than is strictly necessary, meaning that if there's enough chemical, kinetic or magnetic energy already present in a given reaction, you as the alchemist are barely relying on tectonic plates at all."

"Okay…"

"To be a good alchemist, you should take no more than you need to produce the appropriate result with the materials you have. Just because a particular transmutation doesn't require the use of a lot of tectonic energy doesn't mean it isn't alchemy—it's just more _efficient _alchemy. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Ed scowled, squishing his hand into the little pile of wet bread goop in front of him. He grunted.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

Ed scowled harder. "So making pancakes the normal way…is better alchemy than actually transmuting them."

"Exactly!" she said brightly, clapping him on the shoulder. His ten-year-old scowl stayed in place. "Now that's the face of a real scientist!"

Then she clapped her hands together and slammed them down on the failed pancake experiment; there was a small flash, and suddenly the shapeless glob was gone, replaced by three neat piles on the tabletop—flour, baking powder and salt—and a smooth milk-and-egg mixture in the bowl.

"Put those away when you're done experimenting," Izumi said, grinning, "and I'll teach you to make crêpes tomorrow."

Then she strode out of the room before Ed could respond.

Now, in Resembool, in the kitchen, while the coffee was brewing drip by drip and there was butter melting in the pan on the stove, sixteen-year-old Edward suddenly wanted to thank her. She probably didn't even remember that conversation—he hadn't thought about it in years himself. She couldn't possibly have known how relevant it would be to him now.

The sky was getting a lot lighter around the edges, and he figured he had just enough time to make a plateful of pancakes before Pinako—usually the earliest riser—came downstairs. The coffee would be ready just in time, too.

Al would be next, and Winry, if she managed to get up before the pancakes were gone, would be last.

Ed smiled to himself as he ladled pancake batter onto the hot cast-iron pan, wondering absently what she'd been working on when she'd fallen asleep. Had she even made it to bed, or was she up there right now asleep at her desk?

A few minutes later, he was surprised to hear Winry's voice coming down the stairs.

"Calm down, you crazy dog!"

_Ah, _Ed thought suddenly: _the one variable I didn't consider._

Den padded eagerly into the room, tail wagging, apparently lured out of a deep sleep in Winry's bedroom by the intoxicating scent of breakfast. A bedraggled Winry followed a few steps behind, half-asleep and wearing an oversized grey t-shirt. She yawned, then blinked at the scene in front of her in the dimly-lit kitchen.

"Ed?" she said thickly. There was a blueprint mark on the side of her face. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Alchemy," he replied, laughing softly to himself as he flipped a pancake.

**HOW 'BOUT THAT, EH? LIL SPRINKLING OF EDWIN IN THERE FOR YA. Sorry, I'm yelling. I'm just excited about how well this came together with zero advance planning.**

**Scientific pancake information was largely sourced from the article "Pancakes, served with a side of science" by Aatish Bhatia for Wired. Very grateful that this article existed for my extremely specific needs. **

**All the stuff about the specifics of alchemy I just made up, but I think it's all quite in line with what we know about a) what alchemy is capable of, and b) Izumi's don't-rely-on-alchemy-for-everything worldview. I also had a lot of fun writing Baby Ed, and I definitely want to write more of Izumi Curtis. Dinner party chapter hopefully coming soon too. Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!**

**EDIT, 18-04-2020: I have gone back and added song-lyric epigraphs to every chapter, because CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP. You can totally ignore 'em but they make _me _happy so whatever. record companies, don't sue me I love you  
**


	12. The Party, Part 1: Twist My Arm

**Welcome back, gang! Hope you're all well and staying safe. I've been doing a LOT of writing, but unfortunately most of it has been on a chapter WAY ahead in the story. I managed to get this one done, though, so please enjoy it as a tasty snack. It's about as drabble-y as drabbles get, but it's got lots of Resembool Gang Casual Banter, and I dunno about you guys, but for ****_my_**** money you can never see enough of that stuff.**

**Thanks again for your lovely reviews! Astute readers may also notice that we've upped the rating to T for the whole story. I'll warn you guys if anything super dark or potentially triggering is gonna come up, but it's mostly just for language and smoking for now. It's not my fault; it's Pinako's fault.**

**Song for this chapter is "Twist My Arm" by The Tragically Hip, partly because Ed has his arm twisted here and partly because I just think the lyrics are really funny.**

_Martyrs don't do much for me  
Though I enjoy them vicariously  
After you? No, after me  
No, I insist-please, after me!_

_Do I want to, with all that charm?  
Do I want to? Twist my arm._

Everyone was still lingering in the kitchen over coffee hours later when the Saturday mail came. There was the big weekly edition of the _Central Times _that Al had subscribed to, the _East Area Post_ that Pinako took regularly, a big brown envelope addressed to Winry, and a royal-blue envelope with a golden wax seal addressed to "The Rockbell Household".

"I guess this is for you, Granny," Ed said, handing the blue envelope to Pinako as he sat back down next to his brother.

Pinako held it out at arm's length, squinting at the elegant handwriting on the outside. "What in the blazes is this?"

"Probably a reminder from your optometrist, Granny," Winry said, smirking as her grandmother adjusted her spectacles. Ed and Al both snickered.

"What's in that big envelope, Winry?" Al asked.

"Yeah, is somebody suing you for cruel and unusual maintenance fees?" Ed added.

"As if." Winry rolled her eyes as she tore open the top of the envelope. "It's a magazine."

Ed's eyes lit up immediately. "_Gearhead Shut-Ins Monthly_?"

"_Mad Scientist Digest?"_ Al added.

"Ooh, ooh—'_Where's The Rest Of My Shirt _Magazine_,_' the voice of women everywhere living with too many tube tops."

Alphonse snorted. "Jeez, brother, maybe you can borrow it from her when she's done."

"Ew, shut up!" Ed replied, socking his brother on the arm.

It was a normal, playful arm-punch—and it was even with Ed's bad hand—but it sent the still-slight Alphonse sprawling to the floor with a yelp.

"Ow." He stuck his tongue out at Ed from the ground.

"My bad, sorry, Al." Ed helped him to his feet and back into his chair. "I guess we're not recalibrated just yet."

"It's okay, I should've been ready for it," Al chuckled. "You always freak out whenever I mention—" he paused, glancing at the spot on the floor he'd just gotten up from. "…Uh…borrowing things."

"You guys are the worst," Winry said from across the table. "Anyway, no, it's the new issue of _Southern Film Report._"

"Well, that's just not as catchy," Alphonse said.

"Whatever," she said, pulling the magazine from the envelope and looking eagerly down at the cover. Then her eyes lit up. "Hey, Ed, they interviewed the director of _Beasts of Devil's Alley_ for this issue!"

"Really?" he replied. "I wanna see—do they say anything about shooting on location?"

"Is this that movie you guys saw last weekend?" Al asked.

"Yeah, it's the one they shot in Dublith! You should've seen it, Al, it was so—"

Suddenly they were silenced by the sharp sound of Granny Pinako clearing her throat. The three teenagers turned to look at her.

"Alright, listen up, 'Rockbell Household,'" she said, reading from the letter she'd received. "_Dear Ms. Pinako Rockbell, Miss Winry Rockbell, Mr. Edward Elric and Mr. Alphonse Elric, you are cordially invited to attend a celebratory evening at the Armstrong Manor to mark the end of the Summer Season."_

"The end of the _summer season?_" Ed repeated. "So it's a…_fall _party?"

"The Central City _social _season, brother."

"The _what?_"

_"Dinner will be served_," Pinako continued, ignoring the boys, "_and refreshments will be provided. Black-tie attire is suggested. Kindly reply by return mail to confirm your attendance._"

"When is it?" Winry asked, bemused.

"Saturday three weeks from now," Pinako replied. "Well, how about that."

"The Armstrong manor? As in Major Armstrong?" Winry said, looking confused.

"I guess so," Ed said, reaching for the invitation. "Unless it's his _sister_, but that doesn't seem too likely." He shuddered at the thought.

"That's right, I forgot," Al said, nodding. "The Major and the Major General are from some kind of really upper-class family in Central. You remember Major Armstrong, Granny?"

"You mean the hulking gentleman who brought you home in a box last year?" Pinako said dryly. "I believe I do."

"I can't believe he invited all of us!" Winry said. "This sounds so _fancy_."

"Don't worry, Granny, we'll just let the Major know you have to take care of patients out here," Ed assured Pinako.

"The hell you will," she snapped. "If I'm being cordially invited to a black-tie dinner party at the Armstrong Manor, you can bet your beansprout ass I'm _going_."

"Really, Granny?" Winry asked, ignoring Ed's reflexive roar at the beansprout comment. She and Al were looking at Pinako in surprise. "I never would've guessed you'd want to go to something like this."

"Well, learn to guess better, girl," she replied, grinning. "I haven't been to a classy society shindig since the sixties, so I think I'm about due for another one."

Winry, Ed and Al exchanged glances of general astonishment.

"Really?" Al said. "So you'll—you'll close up shop and take the train to Central with us?"

"And get crazy dressed-up and stand around shaking hands with a bunch of rich jerks eating trays of incredibly tiny sandwiches?" Ed added, shrugging. "Knock yourself out, Granny, and I'll stay here and watch the shop."

"What?!" Winry said. "How could _you _not want to go? You actually _know_ the Armstrongs."

"I do, and believe me, that's informing my decision. I'm already over my annual quota for seeing Major Armstrong's big gross pecs for no reason."

"Brother just doesn't want to go because he's terrified of the General," Alphonse said, smirking.

"I am not! I just don't see the point in going to some fancy snooty party on my own time to talk to the people I'm supposed to get _paid _to talk to."

"Well, _I _want to go, so you're coming with me," Winry said, pointing her fork across the table at Ed and glaring at him.

He scowled, took a sip of his now-cold coffee and looked away, not saying anything. He was suddenly standing at an incredibly stupid crossroads, where both paths led to the wrath of an armed and terrifying blonde woman.

"She's right, Ed," Pinako said, nodding gravely. "It's very bad form to force an unattached young lady to attend a social event unaccompanied, especially when you were named on the invitation."

"What?" Ed looked at her, incredulous. "Who _are _you?!"

"I contain multitudes, kid," she replied, chuckling as she picked up her pipe from the table and lit it.

He traded bewildered glances with Al and Winry.

"I have so many questions," Winry said.

"Save 'em for later," Pinako said, taking a long drag and leaning back in her chair.

"Wait, Ed, I think I know why they invited us," Al said, holding up his copy of the _Central City Times. _"It said it was a 'celebratory evening', right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, listen to this: _Officers Who Protected First Lady During Bradley Administration Coup See Slate of Promotions. A group of military officers involved in the heroic efforts to…_blah blah blah…_including veterans First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, Colonel Roy Mustang and Major Alex Louis Armstrong, who will be promoted at a ceremony…" _

"Oh, wow," Ed said casually. "That's so nice for Armstrong and Hawkeye."

Al rolled his eyes. "Don't act like it's not a big deal, brother. The ceremony's the same day as the party, so they're probably going to invite you to that too. I bet that's what the whole thing is about, they just couldn't announce it yet."

"Man, so not only is this party going to be snooty and boring, but it's going to be loaded with annoying promotion-grubbing military guys, _and_ the Colonel? I mean, Mustang?"

"Wait, how come _you_ aren't getting promoted? Weren't you the one who actually defeated that…guy?" Winry asked.

Ed paused, frowning slightly. "Wait a second, yeah. What the hell!"

"Since when do you care about getting promoted?" Al said.

"I _don't_, but it pisses me off that the Col—that Mustang is getting more credit than me."

"Well, that'll make great idle cocktail chatter at the party I'm pretty sure is celebrating his promotion," Al said dryly.

"Okay, now I'm _definitely _not going," Ed said.

"Come on, Ed," Winry said. "They obviously really want you to be there—that's probably why they invited all of us, so we could force you to go."

"Man, what the hell kind of invitation comes with _enforcers?_" Ed said indignantly.

"It's a good strategy, actually," Al replied, grinning and stroking his chin with his hand. "Those guys really know who they're dealing with."

Pinako chuckled to herself as she tapped the ash from her pipe. "If we're all invited, then we're all going," she said. "Look at it this way, Ed: it's your big chance to show off _your _big successes too."

"Yeah, like the new 1915 Model Alphonse!" Al said, pointing both thumbs at himself.

"Yeah!" Winry chimed in, smiling.

Ed grunted in acknowledgement. _Okay, _he thought begrudgingly,_ that's actually a good point._

"So we're going?" Al asked, nudging his brother on the shoulder.

"Fine, I _guess_," Ed groaned, throwing his hands in the air in defeat.

Winry and Alphonse shouted "Alright!" in unison, and Pinako laughed triumphantly.

Ed sighed, then stood up and started clearing the plates, wondering idly whether he was going to be outnumbered like this forever.

**There ya have it! This is the beginning of the new, as-promised arc called "The Party", so stay tuned for more. I love my domestic Rockbell house content, but HOO BOY, GUYS, I am excited to bring in a lot more characters for this. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! :)**


	13. The Party, Part 2: Pillar of Truth

**Back again with more! Thanks so much for your wonderful reviews-I haven't replied to all of them yet but I will soon. This chapter's less fun and more, uh, meditating on the legacy of war crimes, and I wrote it in two days and had a stomach ache the whole time, so is it good? MAYBE NOT. But it's here! It's about the Rockbells, their grief, and the military state.**

**Song for this one is "Pillar of Truth" by the incomparable Lucy Dacus. **

_I, the anchor_  
_I'm slowly sinking_  
_Into darkness_  
_Yet unknown_

_But the fading_  
_Light around me_  
_Is full of faces_  
_Who carry my name_

_I am weak _

_Looking at you_

_A pillar of truth_  
_Turning to dust_

The second relevant piece of mail didn't arrive until Monday morning, where it was accompanied by another thick envelope full of military updates for Edward to sift through.

"Ugh, look at all this crap," he said, flipping the corners of the typewritten pages with his thumb. "This committee has a lot more required reading than I thought it would."

"Quit whining and open the other thing!" Winry chided, brandishing a triangle of toast at him from across the table.

"Okay, okay." He tore open the smaller envelope sealed with the military crest and pulled out a cream-coloured paper card.

"Well?" Pinako said, impatient.

Alphonse was trying to read the card over his brother's shoulder, but Ed turned the opposite way.

"Jeez, you guys," he said, then opened it up and read it aloud. "_Dear Mr. Edward Elric, a.k.a. the Fullmetal Alchemist, your presence is formally requested at the official residence of the Führer-President of Amestris for a ceremony commemorating the military and civilian heroes of the Promised Day Conflict, to be followed by a light reception. Full dress uniform is to be worn. Please confirm your attendance by telephone."_

"See, I told you!" Alphonse said, triumphant.

"Okay, yeah, you really put two and two together on this one," Ed conceded. "That doesn't mean I'm happy about it, though. Full dress uniform, ugh."

Pinako chuckled, taking a sip of her coffee. "You're gonna be quite a sight all dressed up like that. We'll have to make sure somebody gets a picture so we can show it to everybody."

"This is the worst," Ed groaned. "Anyway…" he reached into the bigger envelope his documents had come in, pulling out three identical wax-sealed envelopes and handing them out, "these are for you guys."

"Oh wow, we all get one?" Winry said, staring at the glossy wax seal.

"What a colossal waste of money," Pinako said, grinning as she tore hers open. "_Dear Ms. Pinako Rockbell, your presence is formally requested…_yada yada yada…_Formal dress is recommended."_

"This is so cool," Alphonse said. "Who would've thought that a bunch of random regular people from Resembool would be invited to the Führer's official residence, huh?"

"Well, I'm glad _you're_ excited," Ed said, taking a bite of his breakfast sausage. "There's not a whole lot of mystique in it for me now that I've sat in insanely long meetings with Grumman already."

"You're not a big fan?" Winry asked casually.

"I mean, he's _okay_," Ed replied, pausing to chew. "And obviously I prefer him to the evil homunculus shadow government, so he clears _that_ extremely low bar. But he's just _so old _and _so weird_."

"Weird how?"

"He goes on all these super-random tangents all the time that really drag things out—and he's always laughing at nothing and then saying 'you had to be there' when somebody asks what's so funny. He's a smart guy but he's also kind of nuts."

"Okay, now I'm _really _looking forward to this," Winry said, finally opening her own envelope and reading the invitation.

It was the same as the others, but she still liked seeing her own name written on the fancy cream-coloured paper.

Hours later, up in her bedroom, she took it out again to look at it as she sprawled out on her bed. Even getting to be a guest at something like this—it felt like a bookend, a way to finally draw a line under everything they'd all been through over the past several years. The inherent prestige and luxury of it all held some appeal, for sure, but now that she thought about it, she was really looking forward to being in a room full of people all acknowledging that it was _over_ now, that they'd won.

Plus, well, she was absolutely _dying _to see a bunch of military top brass try to politely interact with her tough-as-nails grandmother. Granny Pinako had never been shy about her distaste for the military—not that she'd ever been shy about anything—and as such, she'd taken the news that the entire power structure had been a sham quite well. Whether she'd be able to hold her tongue about how much she really knew—let alone rub elbows with the new top brass without bodily injury or property damage—remained to be seen.

Winry's own feelings about it were a bit more complicated. She wanted to have faith that the military now wouldn't ever become anything like what it had been—but it nagged at her that the only parts of military command that weren't "real" were at the top. The Ishvalan massacre that took her parents' lives and decimated the East Area had been _orchestrated_ by the Homunculi, but it was people like Roy and Riza and Major Armstrong and even Maes Hughes who had actually done it. That still didn't sit well with her—although she knew it didn't sit well with them either. They all _had_ to sit with it; it was just another part of the uncomfortable bargain they all had to strike in order to move forward.

Winry knew how to swallow her anger—her _real_ anger, which was separate from her temper—and she knew how to channel it into her work. Most of the time that was enough. But sometimes, when she was working through the night and everything was still and quiet, it would roar up like a flame in the centre of her chest and overtake her. In those moments she had no choice but to sit with the feeling—the aching, rocking, hollow sense of loss in her bones and the white-hot rage that twisted her stomach—and try to keep her breathing slow until it passed. She didn't want to wake anyone else, and she didn't want to fuel it if she could possibly avoid it. She did her best to suppress it, but the fact was that the anger was always there, a little pilot light in her chest ready to flare up at a moment's notice. She wasn't sure it would ever go out.

Maybe it was naïve of her to think this way—or maybe it was the only kind of thinking she could tolerate—but for the most part she _did_ believe that Dr. Marcoh, Roy and Riza and so many of the other soldiers she'd met would keep working to redeem themselves and repair the harm they'd caused. They were all haunted by Ishval—especially Dr. Marcoh, who she'd seen come face to face with patients that his own work had orphaned, maimed, widowed, displaced and disfigured. He understood the burden he was carrying, and Winry knew he was working in Ishval even now.

Something had changed in her after meeting Dr. Marcoh, and after meeting the Ishvalan refugee families in the slums where they'd hidden out. She found herself lying awake thinking about the dozens of kids she'd chased and played with and read to every day for weeks, who never questioned who she was or why she was there so long as she spent time with them. She remembered their mothers, harried and kind, insisting on feeding her every time they saw her, and their fathers and uncles who always seemed to have a new joke at the ready for her. Many of them were sick, all of them were poor, and not one of them hadn't lost family to the war—but the children didn't seem to know it. The adults worked tirelessly to build the camp into a place that felt like home, and it was amazing how successful they were.

But she knew all the while that they were suppressing an anger much bigger than hers, dispossessed and hundreds of kilometres from their actual homes. Her parents had known that, and they'd seen it all firsthand, right up until the moment they died.

Winry had lived with her grief for a long time—in fact, as she'd realized recently with a pang, by next year she'd have lived without parents for longer than she'd lived _with _them. It was amazing how fresh it could still feel sometimes, raw like a knocked-out tooth, even though she'd had almost half her life to get used to it.

She thought about what her grandmother had told her days after the funeral: _missing them won't ever go away, but it will start to feel different someday._ She had gone on to explain that when you lose someone, they leave a hole behind in your life. _The hole doesn't ever get any smaller_, Granny had said, _but it's your life that keeps getting bigger. You don't ever forget them—you learn how to carry them with you._

That was it—she had felt her parents' presence in a new way after learning about their lives and their work so directly, and it was changing her. The little pilot light in her chest flickered, but it didn't overtake her this time; it sent a wave of driving, distilled anger over her instead, and she took a long, slow breath.

Her parents had done everything they could. She didn't know what it would mean for her, exactly, but she knew she wanted to do everything she could, too.

_Not that there's a whole lot you can do at a dinner party that's going to save anybody's life,_ Winry reminded herself. _Unless maybe somebody needs the Heimlich maneuver done._

But now that she thought about it, having a ceremony to mark the end of the Promised Day—what did they call it? Incident? Insurgence? Fiasco?—was one thing, but for everyone who knew the _whole _truth about Amestris, it was also marking the beginning of a new kind of country. Things _had _to be different.

**There ya have it.**

**The next chapter's gonna be a lot more fun, I promise! But I hope at least some of you enjoyed delving a bit more into how Winry feels about her parents and how that might play out down the road. **

**I can't remember how much of it makes it into the anime, but in the manga there's a really sweet panel showing Winry and a bunch of Ishvalan kids hanging out together in the slums, and I just...hooo, that gets me. There's lots more EdWin coming, but I also really want to write about Just Winry and her own little arc, so stay tuned for that.**

**Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think-more soon! :)**


	14. The Party, Part 3: Masterpiece

**Hey gang! Back again at long last. Sorry for the wait! May was an absolute month from hell, plus I've been picking away at much-later chapters again because I kept getting stuck on this one. Shout-out to DonutyReads for kicking my ass into gear with a very polite request for more updates, lol. This chapter was sitting around 80% done for like three weeks, but I finally hammered out the last bit, and here it is!**

**Song for this one is "Masterpiece" by Big Thief.**

_Old stars  
Filling up my throat  
You gave them to me  
When I was born,  
And now they're comin' out_

_Layin' there in your hospital bed,  
Your eyes were narrow, blue and red  
You took a draw of breath and said  
To me_

_That you'd seen the masterpiece;  
She looked a lot like me  
Wrapping my left arm  
Around your right  
Ready to walk you through  
The night_

_Old friends,  
Old mothers, dogs and brothers  
There's only so much letting go  
You can ask someone to do_

_So I'll keep you by my side  
I will not give you to the tide  
I'll even walk you in my stride,  
Marie_

_'Cause I saw the masterpiece  
She looks a lot like you  
Wrappin' your left arm  
Around my right,  
Ready to walk me through  
The night  
_

"Winry!" Pinako called, her voice carrying across the upstairs hallway. "Come in here for a moment, would ya?"

"Coming, Granny," Winry replied, setting a stack of folded laundry on her bed before turning and heading into her grandmother's room.

The floorboards creaked under her feet as she stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. Pinako had taken a series of thin garment bags from the huge cedar chest at the foot of her bed, as well as a stack of cardboard boxes that Winry recognized as having come from the basement. They were all arranged haphazardly around the neatly-made bed.

"Whoa," Winry said, blinking. "What's all this stuff?"

"Old clothes," her grandmother said casually. "A few things of mine from way back—and some things that belonged to your mother."

"Oh." Winry felt something flicker in her chest, but she tried not to let it show.

"I don't mean to spring this on you," Pinako continued, "and you don't have to if you don't want to…but I thought you might like to look through some of Sarah's old things and see if any of them fit you. There might be a few dresses in here that'd go over well at the big Armstrong soirée."

"…Really?"

"Really. I don't know how much luck you'll have size-wise, but you're just about grown now, aren't you, so I figure if you find something you like we should be able to tailor it up no problem."

Pinako eyed her granddaughter carefully to gauge her reaction, not wanting to push too hard.

"I…" Winry faltered, then eyed the cardboard boxes. Some of the labels on the outsides were written in what she still recognized as her mother's handwriting. _Sarah—Dresses. Yuriy—Winter Gear. Spare coveralls. _She swallowed. "Yeah, okay."

"Great," Pinako said. "Alright, then, let's get into it, shall we?"

"Let's do it," Winry said, smiling as her grandmother handed her a bag from the cedar chest. "Do you remember what all is in here?"

"Nope. Can't say I've had much chance to look through it all these past few years—but if memory serves, I think your mother held onto a few dresses from weddings she was in, and there might be some from when she was in medical school too."

"_Dresses _from medical school?"

"Yeah, well," Pinako said, chuckling, "I wasn't there, of course, but I got the impression from her and your father that East City med students went to more than their fair share of _soirées _themselves, although some were classier than others."

"That's where they first met, right?" Winry asked, fiddling with the zipper of the opaque garment bag. "In medical school?"

"That's right," Pinako replied. "Although your father almost didn't even _go_ to East City because he was so torn up about some other girl who'd just broken up with him, and that's where she was headed too."

"To med school?"

"No, I think just to work in a shop. That girl—what the heck was her name, now?—wasn't the brightest, but Yuriy was really hung up on her. Personally I wasn't a fan. But you know me, I kept that to myself."

Winry snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Okay, so maybe I made my feelings known from time to time," she conceded. "But I didn't _forbid _them from seeing each other or anything like that. She was welcome here, even if she made me want to vise-grip my own ears shut."

"That bad, huh?"

"Just _stupid_. _So _stupid, and she never stopped talking, but only about what she was thinking about. No questions, no pauses. Just this yappy little monologue, all through dinner. It was like having one of those tiny little show-dogs around, except at least _those_ are quiet when they eat."

"Yikes."

"Uh-huh."

"And _she _broke up with my dad?" Winry asked. "How come?"

"Well," Pinako said, "I never did get all the details, but I _think_ it had something to do with your dad planning on coming back to Resembool once he was certified, instead of opening a private practice in East City or Central or something like that and raking in the cash."

"Ah," Winry nodded. "So she was one of _those_."

"That's for sure," Pinako said, laughing. "She thought Yuriy was gonna be her meal ticket—and he was so smitten by her, lord knows why, that he couldn't see it at all. There was no talking to him about her. Of course, he was just young then—there'd be no talking to him anyway."

"How old _was _Dad when he left for school?" Winry asked.

"Eh?" Pinako raised her eyebrows. "Oh, let me see…he was at home working with me for a few years after we lost Anton, and he was fifteen then…I s'pose he would've been around seventeen when he left? You had to be turning eighteen the same year to enroll. He wanted to go sooner, but he had to wait."

"So he was basically my age, then?"

"Well, just a smidge older. You're not seventeen until next summer, unless I'm completely losing my mind."

"No, I know," Winry said. "It's just weird to think about."

"_Everything_'s weird to think about if you try hard enough," Pinako said, chuckling.

At that, Winry finally got the zipper to the garment bag unstuck, and it slid down with a loud buzzing noise, revealing a long strip of dusty-rose crepe material.

"Oh, wow, look at this!" Winry gasped, carefully extracting the dress from the bag. It was a high-necked cocktail dress with a little pin-tuck and a tiny, elegant rosette at the centre, and a flared-out skirt that she liked a lot. "Oh, this is so pretty!"

Then she saw the sleeves, which were…_large_. Really, really large.

"Hmm," Pinako said, examining it, eyebrows raised. "I'm no expert, but I'm not so sure those sleeves are what the kids are wearing these days."

"They're definitely not," Winry said, sighing. "But I kind of want to try it on anyway."

"By all means!" Her grandmother took the dress and laid it flat on the bed. "We'll add it to the 'maybe' pile. Lord knows that'd be a great colour on you. It sure suited Sarah, anyway."

Winry beamed.

Meanwhile, Ed and Al were down the hall in their own room, and Al was undergoing a crisis.

"I don't have enough to _wear_," he said, sighing dramatically as he flopped down onto his bed, clad in a white button-down, black dress pants and a black vest, which hung open unbuttoned.

"What do you mean, 'enough?'" Ed asked, sitting at the writing desk with his feet up and looking over his shoulder at his little brother. "You've got a full outfit right there."

"This?" Al replied. "I can't wear _this_. This is totally lame. It's so generic."

"I mean," Ed paused to consider. "You could add, like, a cool tie."

"No, that's not what I mean! It's just not…I don't know, _sophisticated _enough."

"How? It's a _suit_. What's more sophisticated than that? Like a…like a _fur coat? _Or a…crown?"

"Ugh, Brother, you are the worst possible person to have this conversation with."

"Whoa, harsh!" Ed protested. "I'm just saying—people aren't going to expect you to have the _coolest suit of all time_. You just gotta show up in something that won't get you kicked out."

"Oh god, can they kick us out?!" Al asked, a note of hysteria in his voice.

"Al, _anyone _can kick us out, all the time."

"Oh god."

Ed laughed. "Jeez, calm down, little bro. I was just kidding. Why are you getting so worked up about this?"

"Sorry," Al replied. "It's just…I went four years without having to think about what to wear at _all_, and now I'm going to this big fancy party where people I actually know are going to be looking at me, and it's gonna actually be, y'know, _me_ this time. It just feels…I don't know…different now."

"Huh. I guess I didn't think of it that way."

"Yeah, so I guess I'm a little nervous."

"Aw, don't be," Ed said, tilting his chair back dangerously on two legs. "Nobody's going to be looking at you when I'm standing right there in my stupid parade uniform looking like a total dork."

"I _am _looking forward to that part," Al conceded, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Is this the version that has the weird skirt-looking thing?"

"It's not a _skirt_, it's just like…a longer jacket part. And I don't know if I have to wear that or if only the generals have to. I've never had to do parade dress before now, and I was really hoping I'd get out of the military before I ever had to."

"Well, I guess in the grand scheme of things the military could've forced you to do, this is probably one of the better ones," Al said, laughing.

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Wore-A-Loincloth-For-Four-Years."

"It's not like I had a choice! What was I supposed to do, shop in the big-and-tall section?"

"I mean, yeah, maybe, now that I think about it," Ed said, considering. "Man, what a missed opportunity."

"No, that would've looked insane," Al said. "Anyway, Brother, what are you gonna wear?"

"The _uniform_. Keep up. Are you getting that brain fuzz thing again?"

"No, I'm not! I mean _after_ the ceremony, for the party."

"Am I not supposed to wear the stupid thing there too?"

"I…" Al paused. "I'm not sure. Is that what 'black tie' means?"

"I am the _last _person you should be asking about that."

Al laughed. "I guess you're right. Maybe we should call and ask."

"Ugh, I'll do that tomorrow," Ed said with a groan. "Right now I don't wanna think about it."

Just then they heard Pinako's voice calling them from the other end of the hallway.

"You boys come here a minute," she shouted.

The Elric brothers looked at each other and shrugged, then headed from their room to the far bedroom in the back corner of the house.

"What is it, Granny?" Alphonse asked, standing in the doorway with Edward behind him.

"We've got some things here you two might want to try on," Pinako said.

Winry was sitting on the bed behind her, arms full of several different kinds of tweed, looking wistful.

"What is all this stuff?" Ed asked, squinting.

Winry got up and passed a hanger to Alphonse. "Here, Al," she said. "I think this grey might work for you."

Al brushed at the fabric of the suit jacket. "Are these…" he swallowed. "…your dad's old clothes?"

"Yeah," Winry nodded, her expression soft. "We were thinking it'd be better to give them to you guys than to just let them sit in boxes—if you want them, I mean."

"I…" Al looked at her, and then back at the suit. "I'll try it on. Thanks, Winry."

"No problem," she said, smiling as she sat back down on the edge of the bed. "They might not even fit, but if it's close enough we can probably get them tailored."

Ed, meanwhile, looked uncomfortable. "Uh," he began, clearing his throat. "Isn't it kind of _weird _to be wearing, y'know…"

"…Dead people's clothes?" Pinako interjected, smirking.

"Well, yeah." Ed stared at the floorboards.

"I…" Winry faltered, then spoke up again, picking up a dark-green dress from a pile on the bed. "I thought so at first too…but then I thought about what we did with your armour, Al."

"My armour?"

"Yeah. I remember—you said you didn't want to just have it sitting around, because that would be like letting it die. Well, on Friday night I finished the design for a new arm casing for a patient, and it's going to use up the final piece."

"That's…" Al swallowed. "That's so cool. It's all gonna be out there helping people."

"Yup," Winry said. "We recycled it completely. And I think you were right—just keeping it in the corner wouldn't really have done it justice in the same way. I'm really glad we found a way to make it useful. And so—all these clothes—I want to—" Her voice hitched a little as a wave of emotion rolled over her, and she looked down.

"—You want to do the same thing for your mom and dad," Al said softly, finishing her sentence.

"Yeah." Winry smiled, trying to wipe her eye surreptitiously. A tear had leaked out without her realizing it, even though she'd been fine seconds earlier.

Ed was still standing several paces back and looking uncertain, like he was trying to figure out a way this _didn't _line up with the principles of alchemy so he wouldn't have to keep thinking about it. Recognizing that his brother was off in his own world, Alphonse sat down next to Winry himself, putting a hand on her shoulder and offering her a handkerchief.

_Somebody has to do it_, he thought.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

Al looked away obligingly as she composed herself again, his thin hand still resting on her shoulder.

"I think it's a really good idea," he said, and then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I don't think Ed's going to get his head around it anytime soon, though."

"Hey!" Edward sputtered indignantly from the doorway. "I _get_ it, okay? I was just _thinking. _Can a guy not think?"

Al and Winry exchanged half-weary, half-amused glances.

"Alright, well, the _two _of you, then," Pinako prompted. "Grab a few things and go try them on. I may not have any appointments this afternoon, but I _do _want my own bed cleared off sometime before midnight, ideally, so get moving."

"Okay, okay," Winry said, and she and Alphonse got to their feet. She handed him a stack of clothes she'd already set aside, and gathered up her armful of dresses again. They headed out into the hall and back to their respective bedrooms; Edward, meanwhile, took up residence on the little chair in the hallway, apparently just waiting for the whole thing to be over.

Alphonse was first to re-emerge. "So I'm, uh…thinking this might be a no," he said tentatively.

He was wearing the grey suit Winry had first shown him—or rather, it was more or less draped over him. Al had put on a lot of weight over the past eight months, but his frame was still noticeably thin. The vest was too baggy to sit right, and it looked more like an unusually formal poncho. He was holding up the pants at the waist with one hand, pinching several inches of excess fabric.

Ed and Pinako both took in the sight and snorted.

Al tried to look annoyed, but it was too blatantly ridiculous; all three of them burst out laughing.

The door to Winry's bedroom opened a crack and she poked her head out to see what was going on.

"Oh," she said simply, and then she was laughing too. "Oh no, I'm sorry, Al," she said, wheezing. "I made such a big deal out of this and it's…oh _no_."

"It's okay," Al replied, clutching at his ribs with the hand that wasn't holding up his pants as he kept laughing. "I mean, at least we tried, right?"

"We really did," she said, sighing. "Hey, Granny, can you come zip me up?"

"Sure," her grandmother said, and she reached through the crack in the doorway to do it.

"Did you have more luck than I did, Winry?" Al asked.

"I dunno," she replied, her voice muffled behind the door. Then it swung open, and she stepped out into the hall. "What do you guys think?"

There was silence for a moment as Winry stood there, the floorboards creaking gently under her feet, in her mother's dress. It was pale blue silk, with sheer chiffon draping across the upper part of the bodice from one shoulder to the other, and delicate beaded flowers and leaves winding down past her waist. The skirt was full and long, reaching all the way to the floor—and even though Winry was standing there as nonchalantly as possible, half-slouching, with her hair up in a straightforward ponytail, the effect was arresting.

"Oh, wow," Al said, taking in the sight. His brother, meanwhile, was staring at Winry looking like he'd just been hit over the head with something heavy.

Pinako's expression was a little harder to read. She looked surprised—and even a little overwhelmed—and something else, too, that Alphonse couldn't quite identify.

The woman exhaled slowly through her teeth, then finally spoke. "Well," she said, "I guess I was right on at least one count today, eh?"

"Really?" Winry asked, her voice tentative. "Do you think it works?"

Her grandmother laughed. "Does it _work?_ Of _course_ it does. Go look in the mirror—you're the absolute spitting image of Sarah."

Winry's eyes widened at Pinako's words, and she hiked up the edges of her long skirt to walk across the hall so she could use the full-length mirror just outside the bathroom door.

"Oh," she said softly.

Meanwhile, Pinako went back into her own room, returning after a few moments holding a photo album. She motioned for the kids to gather around her to look, and they did.

"Your mother wore that to her med school graduation," Pinako said, flipping through the pages until she came to the right one. "There—see? That's her there, with your father. And that's your Grandma Beth and Grandpa James there next to her, though you wouldn't remember them."

"Jeez, Granny, you weren't kidding," Ed said, apparently finally ready to speak again. "They really _do _look the same."

"Yeah, that's amazing!" Al chimed in.

"It's a strong resemblance, alright," Pinako said, nodding. "And it doesn't stop there, either. Did you know your mother graduated top of her entire class?"

"She did?" Winry asked. "She never told me that!"

"She wouldn't have mentioned it in front of your father—that's probably why," Pinako replied, chuckling. "They were both competing for the top spot at the time, and apparently it was very, _very_ close. She had a lot of people telling her that she'd scare Yuriy off if she didn't let him win—that he would never agree to marry her if she showed him up like that."

"What?!"

"Oh, yeah," Pinako said. "It was apparently a major debate at the time. Just think—if those clowns had been right, you might not even exist!"

"Whoa."

"Uh-huh. Of course, Yuriy didn't know all of _that_ was going on behind the scenes—he was just trying to win because he was competitive as hell."

Winry scoffed. "Figures," she said, smirking.

"I know," her grandmother nodded. "But your mother didn't listen, and studied her ass off, and she won fair and square—and then your father proposed to her the very next day."

"Aww!" Winry and Alphonse reacted in unison.

Edward didn't get quite as excited, but he grinned too.

"Granny…" Winry said, "Do you think…do you think it'd be alright for me to wear this to the party? And the ceremony?"

"Of course it's alright, girl," Pinako replied right away, clapping her granddaughter on the shoulder. "Your mother would be so proud of you—I'm sure she'd have wanted you to wear it."

Winry's face split into a smile even as her eyes filled with tears. It wasn't often that her grandmother said something _that_ sentimental at point-blank range, and it caught her off guard. "Thanks, Granny," she said softly, her voice watery.

She found herself looking at the photograph again—her mother and father, looking young and happy and full of life, triumphant and ready to get to work helping people.

_Would they really be proud of me?_

She thought again about what she'd decided the night before. She wanted to be as brave and kind and dedicated as her parents had been—but sometimes she was afraid she didn't have it in her.

Winry ran her thumb over the intricate beadwork across her shoulder, staring at the picture of her mother doing the same thing—absently, while she smiled for the camera with her soon-to-be fiancé by her side.

Then she glanced at her reflection in the hall mirror again. It was a little jarring—suddenly she looked so much older and more mature on the outside than she felt on the inside. But Granny was right about one thing: she really _was_ the spitting image of her mother.

As for the rest—well, she couldn't know _that_. She had a lot to measure up to—but the dress, at least, fit perfectly. So that was a start.

**There ya have it! Nice long one. We're inside Winry's head a bit more here, and I've also taken a few liberties with the Rockbell family history. In the next few chapters I will be taking EVEN MORE liberties, but I think you guys are gonna like it. I'm a little anxious about the tone of this one being all over the place, so let me know what you think.**

**It might be awhile before the next chapter, but hopefully not as long a wait as this one now that I'm back into the swing of things. Hope everybody's staying safe! Thanks for reading; back soon(ish) with more.**


	15. Insomniacs of the World, Goodnight

**OOPS, I'M JUMPING AROUND THE TIMELINE AGAIN. Sorry. Probably when this is all done I'll go back and put the snippets in chronological order for new readers, but if you've been following along so far, this chapter takes place juuuust after "Here and Whole".**

**Thank you guys SO much for your wonderful feedback, and special shoutout to anon reviewer Mal for blowing through ALL THE CHAPTERS AT ONCE and blessing me with nice reviews. :)))**

**CONTENT NOTE/TW: This is a sweet and low-stakes chapter BUT it deals with hospital stuff-IVs/needles, vomit and surgery.**

**Song is "Insomniacs of the World, Goodnight" by Gord Downie.**

_Wishing on the Neverstar_

_For our happy days of electrical smiles_  
_And loving evenings falling down in piles_  
_Not imagining a restlessness_  
_That could keep us apart_

_If I could sleep there's a chance I could dream  
And reconjure all of these vivid scenes_

_Insomniacs of the world, good night_

Alphonse hadn't slept in years. He hadn't been _tired_ in years either, of course, but now that he was home he was learning that sleep was so much more than just powering down so you could power back up later. Every morning he woke up from a long string of tangled and interconnected dreams, some with familiar faces and memories he recognized and some he couldn't pin down at all. While his body rested, his unconscious mind seemed to be up all night doing cartwheels.

The first night back in his own body, at the hospital in Central, he slept so long and so heavily that it almost qualified as a coma. His dreams were a kaleidoscope of colours and feelings, intense and ethereal and loud, and when he woke up he couldn't remember any one individual aspect. Just the all, not the one.

He opened his eyes to an empty room in what looked like the middle of the afternoon, slowly becoming aware that he was alive and awake. He could see the plain, ugly ceiling tiles, the pale blue walls. Hospital bed. White bedsheets. Feet.

_His _feet. His arm, thin and heavy and limp on the bed, with an IV drip stuck into the back of his hand. He winced; he'd always hated needles. _Ew, ew, ew. _He shifted his hand a little, and then he became aware that the IV site was sore.

Then, suddenly, it was like someone had just turned up the volume on a radio, but the radio was his body. _Everything _hurt. He couldn't remember ever being so sore in his life. Muscles he'd never even thought about felt like they were full of acid. _They probably are_, he thought. _Lactic acid. Duh. _His body felt unbelievably heavy, and even though he hadn't moved at all, he felt like he needed to stop and rest. And he was _hungry. _And so thirsty. His throat felt like it was full of tissue paper.

He had the vaguest, blurriest memories of arriving at the hospital and having his vitals taken, but he didn't remember getting the IV put in. He didn't remember getting to this room, for that matter. Alphonse tried to sit up, but his entire torso throbbed in protest; all he managed was to roll over onto his side, and that was still enough to make his vision swim.

When it settled down again, he was able to take in the scene in front of him. It was a double room, and there was an empty hospital bed next to his. The sheets were in disarray, and the mattress had a shallow dent; someone had been lying there not too long ago.

He could see the open door and the brightly-lit hallway outside it, but he didn't see any people.

Then his eyes landed on the little buzzer mounted next to the bed. Was that only for emergencies? Or could he use it to ask for water?

He stared at it for at least a full minute, trying to decide, before ultimately figuring that, well, it wasn't _labeled, _so if he wasn't supposed to press it they couldn't exactly get _that _mad at him, could they?

With extraordinary effort he lifted his arm and pressed the little button, which responded with a dull buzz. _Hopefully it's actually hooked up to something_, he thought.

Within moments, he heard the regular clacking of footsteps, and then a nurse came hurrying down the hall and into the room.

"Well, look who's finally awake!" said the nurse, a young woman with dark, freckled skin and a warm expression, her tight corkscrew curls spilling from under her white cap. "How are you feeling, Alphonse?"

Her tone was so familiar it made him wonder just how long she'd been taking care of him while he was unconscious. He tried to speak, but all he could produce was a dry rasping sound that turned into a cough.

"That sounds about right," the nurse said, laughing apologetically. "You just sit tight for a sec—I'll be right back with some water for you."

He wanted to thank her, but he couldn't speak, so he just waited. Luckily she came rushing back in record time, pushing a metal cart and carrying a clipboard.

"Here we go," she said brightly, parking the cart next to his bed and coming closer to help him sit up. She lifted him up gently, stacking pillows behind his thin frame to prop him upright, and Al became suddenly aware that he was wearing a hospital gown that he had no memory of changing into. This was a terrible realization to make right as the nurse was close enough to him that he could see her distractingly long eyelashes up close, and he felt himself blush.

"Okay," she said, apparently undaunted by his beet-red face. "I know you're thirsty, but you're gonna want to take this _real _slow, alright?" She held a cup of water up to his face so he could drink it, and he took a grateful sip. She held it back from him for a few seconds before letting him have another.

At that moment Alphonse had never tasted anything better. The cool water was easing the scratchiness in his throat, and he reached for another sip as soon as the nurse let him.

Finally, his mouth wasn't so dry, and he tried to speak again. He faltered at first, then cleared his throat and tried again. "T…thanks," he said softly.

"No problem," she replied, flashing him a warm smile. She was incredibly pretty; Alphonse smiled awkwardly and reached for the water again, and she let him finish the glass.

"So," she said brightly, "how are we feeling?"

"Um…" Al paused, considering. "Okay. Sore. Hungry."

"Hungry's a good sign!" she replied, making a note on her clipboard. "We've got some broth right here for you—" she gestured to the cart "—but you're going to have to go super slow until your stomach adapts."

"Right."

"The soreness should ease up in a few days," the nurse continued, eyeing his chart, "but if it's bothering you a lot let me know and I can get you an anti-inflammatory once you've kept some food down."

"Hmm."

She then proceeded to spoon-feed him warm broth. It felt like overkill at first—after all, he wasn't _that _weak, was he? But when he asked to try to do it himself, she'd handed him the spoon and he'd dropped it instantly.

They made it—very slowly—through about half of the small bowl of soup before the nausea hit him. He paused, pursing his lips oddly and turning his head a little, which was a signal the nurse recognized before he did. Without missing a beat, she moved the tray aside and replaced it with a little metal basin just in time for him to retch into it.

His head swam and his eyes watered; it had been more than five years since he'd last thrown up, and as he felt hot acid stinging his throat, he couldn't say he'd missed it. He gagged several times, his stomach contracting painfully, and he was vaguely aware of the nurse's hand on his back.

"Okay," she said gently after giving him water to rinse his mouth. "So your stomach's not quite ready for all that excitement. We'll try again in a little bit." She wiped his mouth matter-of-factly with a cloth and then stood up again, scribbling a few more notes on her clipboard. "You just take it easy, Alphonse. You've got a lot to adjust to now that you're back among the living, hmm?"

Al blinked at her in surprise.

"Don't worry," she said, giving him a reassuring smile that made his heart flutter. "I know what happened, and so does your doctor—we're old friends of Maria's, so we're all filled in."

_Maria? _Alphonse squinted. "Oh! Second Lieutenant Ross!"

"Exactly," she said. "My name's Anna. I'll be back in a little bit to check on you."

"O—okay," Al blurted. "Thanks."

She gathered up the empty tray and the soiled basin and wheeled the little cart out of the room, and Al watched as her crisp white uniform disappeared down the hallway. Then he slumped back against the pillows.

_Great_, he thought. _My first day back in my original body and I've already puked in front of a cute girl._

He lay still for awhile, trying not to pay too much attention to the steady dripping sound from his IV that reminded him of the gross, gross needle thing stuck in his hand. His body still felt incredibly heavy, but at least his throat didn't burn so much anymore.

Then, suddenly, he heard a very familiar set of footsteps coming down the hall—loud, impatient, and the right one just a little different from the left. They were accompanied by clattering little wheels, and he heard a hurried "Whoa! S'cuse me! Sorry!" that clearly identified the culprit—not that he didn't already know who it was.

"Al! You're awake!" Ed practically shouted, shuffling into the room as fast as he could while pulling his IV behind him. His left arm was in a sling, heavily bandaged, while his thinner, paler right arm dragged the little metal pole on wheels across the threshold. He was in a hospital gown too, although he didn't look too upset about it. He was grinning ear to ear.

"Brother!"

"Well? How's it feel to be back?"

"Awful. So bad. Having a body is the worst."

"Man, just wait 'til we find the jerk who did this to you, eh?" Ed joked.

"I don't know what I ever did to him," Al replied, laughing and then wincing slightly as the movement shook every sore muscle in his torso. "Ah—_oww._"

Ed gave him a rueful, sympathetic half-smile—and when Al gave him the same look back they both broke into legitimate grins.

"Man," Ed said, "it is so good to see you smile again."

Al sighed, letting his heavy eyes close again for a few seconds. "Well, I'm glad _you're _enjoying it, at least," he said.

"Sorry—I know you must feel pretty rough," Ed replied, tugging absently at the sling on his shoulder. "Apparently you're seriously malnourished, you're deficient in like every vitamin and you've got severe muscle wastage."

"Hmm. Yeah, that checks out."

"_But_," Ed continued, his tone brightening, "they also said that once you're able to eat again you'll start feeling a lot better—and that it might take awhile, but with enough training, they don't see any reason why you won't be able to make a full recovery."

"Really?" Al opened one eye to look at his older brother, who was settling back down into his own hospital bed now.

"Really," Ed assured him. "You're gonna be fine, Al."

Alphonse smiled wearily. "Thanks, Brother."

"Hey, don't mention it."

Al blinked, slowly soaking in the information around him. "Wait, why are _you _in here? Are _you _okay?"

"Me?" Ed scoffed. "_I'm _fine. They're just keeping me in here because I lost a lot of blood—that's what this stupid thing's for," he said, pointing to the IV in the crook of his elbow. "Although, frankly, I'm kind of confused, because technically I _gained_ a lot of blood, too."

"Huh. I guess they don't see that too often in here, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess not," he said, smirking. "Anyway, I'm going under the knife first thing tomorrow, so I'm not allowed to eat anymore today."

"You're what?!" Al's voice squeaked a little. "What are they doing?"

"Oh—it's no big deal," Ed backpedaled hastily. "They've just gotta scoop out some loose bits of metal on my right shoulder and fix a lacerated tendon on my left. Should be fine. They said we'll both be out of here in six to eight weeks."

"Brother! _Double shoulder surgery_ is a big deal! You don't have to downplay it!"

"I'm not! Listen, when you've had your arm explode as many times as I have, it just doesn't have the same bite to it."

"But those are your _real arms_!"

Ed looked down at his right hand, flexing his fingers out and relaxing them again. "Yeah," he said simply.

"Anyway," he continued, "it's gonna be fine. They'll be done by lunchtime tomorrow, and then they'll take me back up here from recovery the next morning."

"Okay. Well—do they really have to do both at the same time? Isn't that going to make it hard to recover?"

"I thought that too, but apparently it's not that invasive. I'll have to take it easy for awhile, but it's not—y'know, it's nothing like when I had my grafts put in."

They'd both been thinking the same thing.

Al breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good," he said simply.

"Yeah."

There was a beat of silence between them, the only sound coming from their respective IVs dripping away.

"Brother?"

"Yeah?"

"Th—" Alphonse started to speak, but his breath hitched, and he scrunched his eyes shut. "Thanks," he choked out, his voice unmistakeably watery. "I always knew that you'd do it, and you did it." Tears leaked out despite his best efforts, rolling down the hollowed-out curves of his face.

"Aw—Al—" Edward had been lying down, but he sat up again and climbed back out of bed, crossing the small space to sit on the floor next to his brother's bedside. "Al, don't cry, come on."

"Sorry," Al said, covering his eyes with his arm as a fresh wave of tears slid from them. "I just—I can't believe it."

"I—" Edward tried to think of something to say, but the sight of his flesh-and-blood little brother trying to smile and hide his tears at the same time was too much. He felt his own voice break, and hot tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them. He made a sound that was part-laugh, part-sob, and was incredibly grateful it was just the two of them in the hospital room.

Alphonse blinked up at his brother, abandoning his attempt to hide his eyes, and made a similar noise. They both laughed, simultaneously embarrassed and way past being embarrassed, as tears dripped down their faces.

"Aw, jeez," Ed said, lifting the collar of his hospital gown to wipe his face on it. "Look at us—what a mess." He sniffled conspicuously. "I—I can't believe it either. We really did it."

When Anna came back to check on them some time later, she found Edward still sitting slumped against the side of his little brother's hospital bed, both boys sound asleep with tear-tracks drying on their faces. She changed their saline bags as quietly as possible; normal protocol dictated that she should wake the patient and make sure he was in bed, but professional discretionary instinct told her that this particular patient was—for the time being, anyway—resting exactly where he needed to.

**There ya have it. And yeah, I have a soft spot for tales of emotional upheaval that end in wholesome naps! Sue me! I have a few more stories I want to write about Ed and Al in the hospital, and they'll be titled "Recovery" like this one. The next chapter in the Party arc is still on its way, but I hope this tides you guys over for awhile! Stay safe, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think. :)**


	16. The Party, Part 4: Goin' Out West

**HI GUYS, I am so so sorry this update took so long! I've been bouncing all over the timeline again over here, and for this chapter I had the dumbest and most wildly specific idea that I really wanted to do justice. We're back to the Party storyline, but we still don't actually even make it to the party yet. All's well on my end, except-as astute readers can probably tell from this chapter-I'm really missing being able to travel. Stupid pandemic.**

**Anyway. This is pretty silly, but I hope it's even a fraction as funny to you guys as it is in my head. Also I ****_swear _****I am going somewhere with all this Pinako stuff! (And with the EdWin stuff!) Patience!**

**Song for this chapter is "Goin' Out West" by Tom Waits. Which works because Resembool is in the East and Central is in the centre...therefore...it's West.**

_I'm goin' out west where the wind blows tall  
'Cause Tony Franciosa used to date my ma  
They got some money out there, they're givin' it away  
I'm gonna do what I want and I'm gonna get paid  
Do what I want and I'm gonna get paid_

_Little brown sausages lying in the sand  
I ain't no extra, baby, I'm a leading man  
Well, my parole officer should be proud of me  
With my Olds '88 and the devil on a leash  
My Olds '88 and the devil on a leash_

_I know karate, Voodoo too  
I'm gonna make myself available to you_

It was bizarre for Ed and Al to see Granny Pinako striding matter-of-factly through the train station in Central. She was one of those figures in their lives that seemed to only exist in one specific location. Somehow seeing the one consistent person who had always welcomed them home to Resembool walking around in the capital was like seeing your math teacher on summer vacation: unsettling, out of context, and deeply off-script.

Pinako herself seemed to be enjoying the trip. Every town they'd passed through on the train reminded her of a different old friend or weird anecdote; it had been years since she'd had the chance to leave the East Area, and she sat by the window taking extensive notice of everything that had changed. She had even dressed for the trip, wearing a black-and-plum houndstooth jacket and matching skirt in place of one of her usual day dresses. It was jarring to see her without a heavy work apron on, and even more jarring to see her usual work gloves changed out for spotless cream-coloured dress ones. She was even wearing a little string of pearls around her neck, which she usually only brought out for weddings and funerals.

Ed, Al and Winry were dressed casually, and, thanks to much consultation with Mustang's department, had packed separate, carefully-vetted outfits for the ceremony and the party to change into later.

"Granny, are you _sure _you don't want to just stay at the military hotel?" Edward asked for the zillionth time. "Since this is a mandatory work thing for me I can just expense the room—you wouldn't have to pay at all."

"Why do you keep asking me the same question like I'm gonna change my mind?" she replied, shaking her head.

"Because I feel like you're not totally grasping the concept of _free accommodations_," he said, grasping at empty air with both hands. "Free! Zero cenz! No money down!"

"It's true," Al chimed in. "Ed's been home so much he's got plenty of room left in his travel budget."

"Listen," Pinako said, stepping close to the curb and hailing a cab with an aggressive wave, "it's not about the money. You kids will understand once we get where we're going, trust me."

Winry and the Elric brothers exchanged bewildered glances. Not only did they have no idea where they were going or why, but the three of them had only ever even _seen_ Pinako in a car a handful of times; seeing her hail a Central City taxi like she'd done it every day of her life was jarring, to say the least.

They all piled into the car with their bags, and Pinako gave the driver a street address that Edward didn't recognize; he shrugged in response to Al and Winry's questioning looks. The driver took them winding through downtown, and Winry recognized the neighbourhood as the same one she and Edward had been in a month prior. They were near the fancy restaurant where Ed had taken her to dinner.

The car pulled up next to the well-lit and aggressively opulent carriage entrance to a huge, polished limestone building that they could only assume was a hotel. They stepped out of the taxi and into the glow of the huge red-and-gold awning overhead. Edward[E1] stared; there were fancy doormen, fancy shiny luggage carts—even fancy potted plants with little electric lights winding around them. Just for show, in the middle of the day.

"Whoa," all three teenagers uttered at roughly the same time.

"Here you are, ma'am," the driver said. "The Royal Emerson Hotel."

A uniformed bellhop—not just a generic guy who worked at the front desk, but an honest-to-God _dedicated bellhop_—hurried over to load up their luggage, and Pinako further surprised the kids by not refusing his help. Instead she thanked him graciously, as though she had strangers execute basic tasks for her every day, and strode ahead into the hotel lobby like she owned the place.

"What is _happening?!_" Edward hissed at Winry, who shrugged back at him, looking even more perturbed.

Ed, Al and Winry followed after her, mystified. The three of them gawked openly at the sight of the lobby, where every available surface was gleaming white marble and any visible object with edges was trimmed with gold. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high, vaulted ceiling, and the little seating area by the imposing marble front desk was decorated with elaborate floral arrangements on elegant little tables. There were far more lights than strictly necessary, and the effect was that the entire space seemed to glow.

The three of them stood awkwardly in the centre of the lobby, taking in the unfamiliar environment, while Pinako walked right up to the front desk.

A put-together-looking middle-aged woman greeted her warmly. "Ah, Ms. Rockbell—welcome back. We've been expecting you. The P and S Emerson Suite has been prepared for your arrival."

"Excellent—thank you very much," she replied demurely.

"If you and your guests would follow me," the bellhop said, "your suite is right this way."

The exchanging of bewildered glances continued all the way through the lobby, past the gleaming indoor fountain and the rows of decorative ferns, into a large wood-panelled elevator with fifteen gilded, backlit mother-of-pearl floor buttons.

"The fourteenth floor is the penthouse suite," the bellhop explained, "and the fifteenth is the pool, although it's presently closed for seasonal maintenance."

The P and S Emerson Suite—labelled with a little silver subtitle plaque below the room number—was one of just four rooms on the thirteenth floor. The bellhop handed Pinako a long silver skeleton key, and she reached out smoothly to unlock the imposing cream-coloured door.

"Um. Whoa," Ed said flatly, his jaw hanging open.

The suite was enormous, with improbably-high ceilings and towering windows to match them. The walls were silver-trimmed cream-coloured wood panelling interspersed with ornate, rose-pink paper, and the walls were dotted with huge oil paintings in ostentatious gold and silver frames. There were heavy silk brocade curtains adorning the high, arching windows, and matching cloths were draped across the coffee table, the end tables and the dining table. There were co-ordinating cushions and vases of flowers decorating every available surface, and every piece of furniture from the sofa to the armchairs to the dining chairs to the chaise lounge was richly upholstered along the textile colour continuum of ashes-of-roses straight through to winter cranberry.

In layman's terms, it was red and white and expensive all over.

The three teens stared in shock as the bellhop carried their bags in, and they were too distracted by the room itself to notice Pinako, with an air of incredible nonchalance, dismissing him with a generous tip.

"I didn't even know they _made_ hotel rooms like this!" Al said, glancing around at the huge room. "How come we never got to stay in a place like this until now, Brother?" he joked.

"Because we didn't have—" Ed turned to look at the little printed rate card on the back of the door with the floorplan and the fire escape directions. "—three hundred and fifty _thousand _cenz?!"

"Granny, how are we affording this?" Winry hissed. "The shop's doing well, but it can't be doing _this _well. How are you paying for—"

"Simple," Pinako interjected. "We're _not _paying for it. This suite is covered 'cause I've still got a couple connections in this damn city."

"Wh—" Ed sputtered. "…Connections to _what_, an organized crime syndicate?!"

"No, no," she replied, shaking her head. "Nothing like that. Or—_well_—"

Alphonse looked at her with such a stricken, shocked expression that she stopped her joke in its tracks.

"I'm just kidding, Al, don't go giving me that look," she said, chuckling. "No, it's nothing sinister."

"Then…what is it?" Winry asked, looking more confused than ever.

"It's an old friend of your grandfather's, that's all," Pinako replied. "Somebody he and I helped out a long time ago."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. In fact, now that I think about it," she said, pausing to remember, "it was actually the very first piece of automail the two of us made together."

Winry's eyes lit up. "What was it?!"

"Damn it, now I really wish we'd come up with a better name," Pinako muttered. "You never know in advance what's gonna become a defining moment. Guess I can't help that. Hindsight."

"Come on, Granny," Winry pleaded. "You _never _tell me about this stuff."

"You really wanna know?"

"_Yes!_"

Pinako sighed and shook her head, grinning ruefully. "It was, ah, a simple shock-absorbing leg model called the Snuffles 2000."

Ed snorted. "The _what?!"_

"In my defense," Pinako said, "it was a leg for a dog, and we had no naming rights over the dog."

"The dog's name was _Snuffles 2000_?"

"No, just Snuffles—and may he rest in peace," Pinako said with an air of great solemnity. "Snuffles Emerson IV, 1862-1887."

"He was twenty-five years old? Like…in human years?!" Winry asked, incredulous.

"You better believe it. I thought the little guy was gonna live forever."

"But that's…" Al held out his fingers, his face scrunched in concentration as he did the math in his head. "A _hundred and seventy-five_ in dog years?!"

"That can't be right! There's no way!" Ed said. "You must've done it wrong."

"I know how to _multiply_, Brother! It's seven dog years for every chronological year."

"Yeah, but that doesn't adjust for the _type _of dog, so it's probably not accurate. There are way more factors than just chronological age! That's just basic biology!"

"Alright, fine," Al replied. "Granny, what kind of dog was, um, Snuffles?"

"A Pekingese," she answered.

"Well, I don't even know what that is, so I guess we'll never know," Ed said, throwing his hands in the air.

"Wait, so…Emerson…" Winry squinted. "Are we staying in this hotel for free because you and Grandpa made automail for the _owner's_ _dog _fifty years ago?"

"More or less. It was a personal favour to Ms. Penelope Rose Emerson," her grandmother replied, grinning widely. "So don't go saying your family never did anything for ya, eh?"

Winry laughed and shook her head, amused. "Well, thanks, I guess," she said, stepping further into the room and looking around. The Elric brothers followed suit, still looking a little apprehensive.

"This is why I told you kids not to worry about the money," Pinako said, sitting down on the sofa in the middle of the room. "If we're having a high-society weekend in Central, we're gonna do it up right."

The suite really was something—the elegant sitting area led to two separate bedrooms, a private bathroom and a small balcony, with huge glass doors that revealed a stunning view of the city below.

"Are you _absolutely _sure it's okay?" Ed asked, glancing back at the door with the rate written on it.

"Now who's not grasping the concept of free accommodations?" she replied with a smirk.

"Alright, alright. Just checking." He shrugged, acquiescing, and strode across the room, dragging his overnight bag with him. "Anyway, we gotta get ready. Dibs on the bigger room," he called over his shoulder, opening the ornately-carved cream-coloured door to one of the bedrooms. "C'mon Al, I'll grab your suitcase."

"I can carry it! Look, I've got it, see?"

"Okay, okay."

There was relative quiet for a moment as Winry and the boys both carried their bags to their respective bedrooms. Winry only had time to heft her suitcase up onto one of the two high, silk-canopied beds and lay out her two dresses in front of her before she heard a strangled yell from the next room. She spun on her heel and rushed back into the main room.

"What happened?!"

She stared through the open door into the larger bedroom, where Edward and Alphonse were both staring at something on the wall. Al just looked mildly surprised, but Ed was clutching his chest and looking greatly perturbed.

"It's fine, Winry," Al said, holding up a hand. "We just—"

"We are _switching rooms_," Ed interjected.

"What? Why?" Winry narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What's wrong with _this _room?"

"There's nothing _wrong _with it," Al said hastily. "It's completely fine. Brother's just overreacting."

"Overreacting to _what? _What are you guys looking at?" Winry strode into the room to stand beside them both, looking up at the far wall.

"_That_," Ed said, pointing.

"Wha—" She froze mid-sentence. "Oh."

Gazing balefully down at the three of them from the wall was a four-foot-high oil portrait—considerably larger than life-size—of an elaborately-groomed, flat-faced little dog, perched regally atop a purple velvet ottoman on three stubby legs and one unmistakeable steel prosthetic.

"Oh, so…" Winry was a little caught off-guard by the sheer scale of the thing. "…I guess this must be the dog, huh?"

"Yeah, and he's _your _problem now," Ed replied, already heading for the door. "C'mon, Al."

Alphonse—largely unbothered, if a little bemused—looked to Winry for confirmation.

"What? Who says I'm switching rooms with you?" she countered, crossing her arms. "You were pretty eager to call dibs on the master suite a minute ago."

"Yeah, well," Ed said, "I don't wanna get changed with Snuffles 2000 staring at me from beyond the grave."

"Why should _I _have to?!"

"It's your ancestral legacy! He's the Ghost of Canine Amputees Past!"

"No way! If anything, it's _your _legacy."

"What? How?"

"You have so much in common with him! Think about it—you've both got a Rockbell left leg—"

"And kind of a scrunched-up face," Al added. Ed's scowl deepened on cue.

"That too," Winry agreed, a glint in her eye as she slipped into a mock-wistful tone. "Just a couple of little guys with bad leg luck and worse fashion sense."

"So true," Al said, nodding as he wiped away an imaginary tear.

Ed roared with annoyance and stomped to the bathroom instead, his uniform in hand, slamming the door behind him. The others laughed.

"I don't get what the big deal is, personally," Al said, laying his clothes out on the bed as he looked up at the portrait. "This lady obviously really loved her dog if she went to all that trouble to build it a new leg."

Winry nodded. "Yeah—although I think she could stand to scale down the painting just a little. He's practically the size of a horse."

It was true—and the portrait even included a bowl of fruit in the background, which betrayed the actual ratio.

"Have you ever heard Granny mention this before?" Al asked. "She's never talked about your grandpa around me and Brother."

"Nope, never—she only ever talks about him when she's talking about automail," Winry replied. "Oh, and once when one of her old drinking buddies visited a few years ago, but that wasn't her telling me so much as me eavesdropping."

"She never even mentioned it when you guys were working on Den's leg?"

Winry shook her head. "You know how Granny is," she said, turning to head back out of the room so they could both change. "Everything's on a need-to-know basis."

* * *

**THAT'S RIGHT, WE'RE STILL NOT EVEN AT THE CEREMONY. Next chapter, though, I swear, we actually get there. I've been researching a ton and the whole thing should come together HOPEFULLY quickly.**

**The concept of Snuffles 2000 has been living rent-free in my head for the past three months and tormenting me, so I hope you guys enjoyed it. I also did a bit of research on Pekingese dogs for this, and I read this choice snippet from the Wikipedia article: **

**_The Pekingese weigh from 7 to 14 lb (3.2 to 6.4 kg) and stand about 6–9 inches (15–23 cm) at the withers, however they can sometimes be smaller. These smaller Pekingese are commonly referred to as "Sleeve" Pekingese or just "Sleeves". The name is taken from ancient times, when emperors would carry the smallest of the breed in their sleeves._**

**IS THAT NOT ADORABLE? DO YOU NOT NOW DESPERATELY WANT TO SEE EMPEROR LING YAO WITH A TINY DOG IN HIS SLEEVE? BECAUSE I SURE DO. AND I'M THE AUTHOR HERE, SO STAY THE HECK TUNED.**

**Anyway, thanks so much for sticking with this story! (And if you're just joining us, thanks for tuning in!) I hope everyone's staying safe and well out there in Pandemic Hell, and if you have time please leave a review and let me know what you think!**


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